


Ouroboros

by Morgan Steelgrave (m_steelgrave)



Series: Gilgamesh [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Horcruxes, M/M, POV Alternating, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Professor Harry Potter, Professor Tom Riddle, Slow Burn, Tom Riddle doesn't like puzzles he can't solve, but neither does Harry Potter, including the students, mention of previous Time-Turner use, practically everyone at Hogwarts ships these two idiots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2018-12-04 01:26:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 37,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11544555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m_steelgrave/pseuds/Morgan%20Steelgrave
Summary: Even though the snakehas slipped into the shade,the shed skin, deceptively whole,hidden in the sun-flecked grass,remembers what it once held.- from "Snakeskin" by Liz BeasleyTom Riddle returns to teach at Hogwarts after facing down Death herself...and losing.In all honesty, that part was easier than dealing with meddling students, a past that won't leave him alone, and Harry Potter.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was going to be a short sequel, and then perhaps a few short follow-up works, and then it exploded because Tom Riddle is his own worst enemy. Then it took me a while to get him in character, but changed as he needed to be for this. It's close enough to being finished now that I feel I can begin posting. I will try to update once a week, but the beginning of the semester approaches and my syllabi will require some attention, even if they are assuredly less fun to write.
> 
> I recommend you read _Gilgamesh_ first, as this story references the events that take place in that work. Some things won't make much sense, otherwise. And, if you have read _Gilgamesh_ , please do note the change in the relationship tag. They'll get there, but they'll take their sweet time.

When Harry Potter realized that the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was watching him, it took him a while to figure out that it was different. Harry knew what it felt like to be watched by fans, or even critics. He was accustomed to children and even some adults running up to ask for a quick autograph or photo, or to ask about the upcoming Quidditch season or to re-live past victories. This...was not that.

Admittedly, he only figured out that Tom was watching him because he kept trying to catch glimpses of the Defense professor, himself. But every time he tried to sneak a peek, Tom’s dark, unreadable gaze was already bent in his direction. The first couple of times it happened, Harry looked away quickly, as if he had merely been scanning the room and not trying to observe anyone in particular. But after a while, he decided to meet Tom’s eyes and smile. Harry was a little disconcerted when his smile was not returned and was instead met with a thoughtful furrowing of Tom’s brow.

Harry didn’t know what to make of it.

He applauded with everyone else when Albus introduced Tom during his address, and Tom cut a another brief glance in Harry’s direction as he sat down. At that point Charity Burbage asked him something about his travels over the summer, and Harry diverted his attention to his food and to the Muggle Studies professor.

He realized a little while later that he no longer felt the prickly sensation of being watched, and glanced around just in time to catch sight of the antechamber door closing. Deciding that getting to the bottom of the mystery that was Tom Riddle was vastly more intriguing than his current conversation with Charity, he made his excuses and followed Tom outside.

It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness. The man was standing facing the lake, just far enough away that the light coming from the Great Hall’s windows did little more to illuminate his presence than glint off the silver of the cane on which he was leaning. Harry almost hesitated to interrupt this moment of unrequited observation, even if Tom’s stance betrayed very little.

Finally he said, "I wondered where you'd gone." Tom didn’t appear to startle, but he did turn rather quickly. "Needed some air?"

"Something like that," Tom replied. His tone was brusque, but it didn’t deter Harry.

"Mind some company?"

Tom appeared to consider it for a moment before shrugging. The gesture was far more casual than Harry expected. Thus far Tom had exhibited an imperious air, but that seemed to have melted away in the darkness. Harry sat down on the stone steps, leaning back on his elbows and stretching his legs out in front of him. The chairs at the High Table weren’t exactly the most comfortable things to sit on for a lengthy Start of Term Feast.

When it became clear that Tom would not be the one to initiate conversation, Harry decided to throw caution to the wind and skip small talk altogether. "It must be strange for you to be in there," he said, diving straight in. A flicker of suspicion crossed Tom’s features, and Harry added, “Albus told me you've...missed out on a few years."

"More like fifty. Did Albus discuss me with everyone?"

Tom valued his privacy, apparently. Harry ignored the slight flare of temper and simply catalogued that knowledge for later. "No wonder you looked like you were about to bolt."

"Did he tell you why?"

"No, he just said you'd been working on some kind of experimental magic." That was what Albus told him when Harry pried a bit after first meeting Tom, but Harry was certain it was a half-truth at best. 

"Ah," said Tom, anger abating and uncertainty making itself known in the way his fingers fidgeted against the silver grip of his cane. "That's right. Mostly. It's a long story.”

And not one Tom wished to share at the moment, Harry gathered. He let it drop. The more time he spent with Tom, the curiouser Harry became. "Why don't you sit down?" 

"Thank you, but I need to stand." 

"Sorry. Hip, right?” He nodded to the cane. “What happened?"

There was a tic in the muscle of Tom’s sharp jaw as he considered. "Something with big claws decided to play with me,” he replied at length. “It didn't play nicely."

"McGonagall?"

Tom laughed. It was a bit hoarse and it seemed to catch him by surprise, and Harry privately considered it a victory. "No, not Minerva."

"From the way she was looking at you, I wouldn't be surprised. I heard some of them talking about you," said Harry lightly, deciding to push his luck when Tom’s rueful smile didn’t vanish immediately. "Most of it is just gossip based on what was in the press. You have quite the fanbase among the students, it would seem. But Vera Summerby swears you almost sacrificed her aunt for some ritual in her fourth year. I told her it was probably nonsense.”

The smile vanished then, though Tom didn’t just shut the conversation down as Harry had expected. "It isn't," he said thoughtfully.

"I'm not afraid of you," Harry said easily. He didn’t mean it as a challenge, exactly, though it wasn’t entirely a joke. For all their polite banter, Harry wanted to give Tom pause. 

Tom regarded him long moment. Out here in the muted yellow light from the castle, his eyes seemed almost black. "No, you're not, are you? You never have been."

And wasn’t _that_ interesting, Harry thought. Tom seemed to realize his slip as soon as the words left his mouth and he added quickly but smoothly, "In any case, Albus took a big risk hiring me on. I'm sure he’ll receive a few complaints."

"People trust him," said Harry with a shrug. "If he says you're fit, you're fit. Everyone's probably just reeling from losing Galatea after so long."

Tom’s mood made an abrupt turn for the introspective, and Harry decided to quit while he was ahead. He had plenty to think about. Standing and stretching, he said, “We'd best get back. It sounds like the festivities are breaking up.” Tom seemed to emerge from a reverie and nodded. He didn’t flinch away when Harry ushered him ahead with a hand at his shoulder.

* * *

The Sorting was interminable. At least as a student Tom could whisper to the others at the Slytherin table or, failing that, pull out a book. He couldn't very well ignore the ceremony as a member of the faculty and in full view of everyone in the Great Hall. On second thought, he could probably do whatever he wished as a faculty member, but he was conscious of the narrow glare coming from Minerva McGonagall's direction as she read aloud the students' names. At least she had to vacate her seat to his right in order to lead the Sorting. He rubbed his thumb absently on his glass and kept his eyes resolutely on the ceremony.

His reputation had never been publicly tarnished in any way. The press coverage of his exploits painted him as a model student, whose brilliant mind led him to leave school early and strike out on his own. Somehow they turned his descent into the underworld into a near-mythical outing. The Quibbler got closest to the truth in its coverage, mentioning that Tom experimented with magic of questionable morality and sought out Death simply because it was a challenge. On the opposite end of the spectrum of journalistic accuracy was Rita Skeeter’s article painting his journey as that of a romantic hero, delving into the dark and mysterious underworld to rescue a damsel in distress. Most coverage of his story fell somewhere between these two versions, but Tom was loath to correct any of them. Let them wonder, he decided. He’d be damned if he would give any of them an interview.

He knew there would be some who remembered him less fondly from his student days. The one person he had expected to despise him the most was Hagrid. He had him expelled, after all. Tom actively avoided the groundskeeper until he ran into him on one of the many long walks Tom took--with the aid of a cane gifted to him by Albus, much to his seething frustration--to escape the oppressive feeling of the stone walls. Tom had never been very good at apologies, but he barely found the words for banal pleasantries before Hagrid clapped him on the back and announced everything forgiven. The strangest thing was that Hagrid appeared to be sincere, and he appeared to know more about Tom's history than Tom would have liked. He imagined Albus had something to do with it.

Minerva, however, was a different animal entirely. She had been two years ahead of him and, although he had never openly done anything to rouse her suspicion, disliked him thoroughly. Tom chalked it up to a combination of her being preternaturally observant as a student and her steadfast alliance with Albus, whose opinion of him was rather bleak until very recently.

Tom did not know the tiny charms professor or the sour-looking potions professor who kept glaring at Harry. Tom was fighting a losing battle against staring openly at the flying instructor, himself. His initial shock upon meeting him again had dulled somewhat, but Tom never forgot the purpose of his ill-fated journey to confront Death. Harry was important to him somehow, and Tom’s determination to unravel the mystery of why never flagged. 

Harry happened to glance his way and caught his eye. He smiled. Once again, Tom was struck by a recollection of the boy’s smile when he caught Tom off-guard with some obscure bit of knowledge about Tom’s activities.

Minerva glared at him. Tom realized he was drumming his fingers on the table, and folded his arms across his chest. He raised an eyebrow at her, daring her to scold him like a student, but she merely squinted at him over her spectacles and continued to read the names of the new first-years. She was only just now getting to Lambert, Nathan.

Tom sighed.

When the Sorting was finally over, Albus rose to address the students. It was nothing new, except for a mention that something called Weasley's Wizard Wheezes were most definitely contraband. Out of the corner of his eye, Tom saw Harry smile. As Albus rambled on, he couldn't help but wonder at the fact that Harry smiling appeared to be a regular occurrence. Tom found that he was glad for it.

An elbow poked him in the ribs, derailing his train of thought. "Stand up, you've just been introduced," Minerva hissed at him. Tom followed orders and stood, nodding brusquely to the room without really seeing it. There was sporadic applause and more than a few whispers. His hip twinged, but he smothered the grimace with a smile as he sat back down.

"Thank you," he whispered to Minerva through his teeth. She sniffed and threw him another appraising glance, albeit less ominous than the previous ones. “Stop staring at him. People will think you’re plotting to murder him,” she said crisply before turning her attention back to the headmaster's welcome address. To his credit, Tom faltered only the slightest bit at her words. He chanced a quick glance in Harry’s direction before he settled on and staring at his plate for the rest of the address.

He did not have much of an appetite. He picked at enough food to give the semblance of having eaten, trying to hold up his end of faculty small talk at the same time. It was somewhat difficult, however, when Minerva flat out refused to speak to him and Flitwick, to his left, was deeply involved in a conversation with the astronomy professor about the calendar of the ancient Minoans. Not being engaged in conversation meant his traitorous mind was free to point out just how many people there were in that single room, and how loud and oppressive it was starting to feel. 

As soon as it was possible without seeming rude, Tom slipped out of the Great Hall via the antechamber behind the faculty table. He paced a bit by the window there, trying to stretch out his stiff hip and expel some of his pent-up energy. He did not expect to feel so smothered by such a large space. Nevertheless, his mind kept wandering back to the dark, hot tunnels under the sandy earth, full of the restless dead. Tom felt the urgent need to get out of the building. He found his way out to the lawn, inhaling the cool evening air with relief.

The feast continued without him, but Tom much preferred viewing it as bright lights and muffled voices through the large stained-glass windows. The clouds had cleared enough for the jagged line of Cassiopeia to appear overhead, and the leaves already had a drier rustle that signified autumn's beginning. He had forgotten how much he loved this place—how much he thought of it as home.

Or at least he used to. What was he doing here? He couldn’t even make it through the Sorting without having issues. That he had been reduced to this—limping, cringing—was embarrassing beyond anything Tom had known since his orphanage days. It took considerable effort not to allow his frustration to boil over into fits of temper. At least he could walk around during his classes to keep his hip from stiffening up, and most meals were optional now that the year had officially begun. He could take his tea and toast in private and not worry whether or not he was fit for human company.

"I wondered where you'd gone," came a voice from the doorway. Tom turned to find Harry standing there, partly silhouetted in the buttery yellow light that pierced the dusk. "Needed some air?"

"Something like that," Tom replied, his tone clipped due to his fatigue. He regretted it immediately.

It didn't appear to bother Harry. "Mind some company?"

Tom shrugged. Harry sat down on the stone steps, leaning back on his elbows and stretching his legs out in front of him. Tom remained standing, trying not to stare, trying to think of what he was supposed to say.

"It must be strange for you to be in there," Harry said at length. When Tom looked at him quizzically, he added, "Albus told me you've...missed out on a few years."

Tom snorted. "More like fifty." Then, irritation burgeoning, he asked, "Did Albus discuss me with everyone?"

Harry ignored the complaint and grimaced. "No wonder you looked like you were about to bolt."

Tom brushed aside the small part of him that was pleased to hear that Harry had been watching him. "Did he tell you why?"

"No," Harry said. "He just said you'd been working on some kind of experimental magic."

"Oh," said Tom. That was good. Of course he knew Albus would never lay the entire story out to Harry without Tom's permission, but the idea of Albus talking to Harry about him made him nervous. "That's right. Mostly. It's a long story," he finished lamely.

Harry didn't push for more information. Instead he patted the step next to him and asked, "Why don't you sit down?" 

"Thank you, but I need to stand." 

Harry cocked his head to one side. "Sorry. Hip, right?” Upon seeing Tom’s wary expression, he added, “What happened?"

Hell happened, Tom thought. Aloud, he said, "Something with big claws decided to play with me. It didn't play nicely."

"McGonagall?"

Tom laughed. It was the first time he'd laughed in ages. Decades, he realized. "No, not Minerva."

"From the way she was looking at you, I wouldn't be surprised. I heard some of them talking about you," said Harry. "Most of it’s just gossip based on what was in the press. You have quite the fanbase among the students, it would seem. But Vera Summerby swears you almost sacrificed her aunt for some ritual in her fourth year."

Tom winced at the name. That had to be the girl he'd planned on killing to save the boy—to save Harry, he corrected himself.

"I told her it was probably nonsense," Harry added.

"It isn't," Tom said quietly. He could feel Harry's eyes on him.

"I'm not afraid of you," Harry said.

Tom regarded him for a long moment. It was strange to be able to look at Harry outright, to not be stealing a glance during meetings. "No, you're not, are you? You never have been."

He realized his slip as soon as he'd said it, but Harry made no sign that he'd noticed. A little louder, he continued, "In any case, Albus took a big risk hiring me on. I'm sure he’ll receive a few complaints."

"People trust him," said Harry with a shrug. "If he says you're fit, you're fit. Everyone's probably just reeling from losing Galatea after so long."

Tom mulled his vote of confidence for a moment, unsure what to say. Harry stood up and stretched his arms over his head, arching his back like a cat. "We'd best get back. It sounds like the festivities are breaking up," he said. Tom nodded and moved to follow him back inside. Harry held the door open for him and ushered him into the castle with a hand on his shoulder.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a bit longer to post than I intended, but hopefully the length will make up for the delay. Still a bit of a slow build, though things will start picking up after this.

Harry read every article he could possibly find about Tom. He listened intently when he happened to catch Minerva and Hagrid discussing Tom’s time as a student, and the fact that Tom had sought Hagrid out to apologize for something he’d done to him during school. Minerva didn’t think Hagrid should have forgiven Tom so easily, but Hagrid was...well, Hagrid. Harry asked Albus as casually as possible about Tom’s background and how he had come to replace Galatea, but Albus simply smiled that damned smile and said Tom had sought him out and that he’d hired him because he was good for the position, and that the position would be good for Tom. 

All told, Harry only managed to string together a frustrating web of romanticized pulp articles, rumors, and half-truths. He was hopeful after his conversation with Tom that he might see more of him and get to know him beyond what little information he had managed to glean from unreliable sources, but Tom’s conspicuous and steadfast absence from anything beyond his classroom duties was making this task far more difficult than Harry had hoped. He didn’t begrudge Tom his privacy, considering the keen interest the students and general public had in his fascinating (but doubtlessly highly fictionalized, if Harry knew the Prophet) exploits. Harry was all too familiar with the negative side of celebrity.

He was kept quite busy during the first few weeks of classes, anyway. He had a new crop of First Years to wrestle off the ground, and new Quidditch teams to keep from murdering one another over practice time reservations. But he always watched for Tom at meals, and was always a little discouraged when he never showed up. He thought he managed to hide his disappointment quite well, but he caught Minerva’s eye one morning as he gathered up his belongings after breakfast.

“These things go both ways,” she said. “If he won’t come down here and join the rest of the peasants, you’re perfectly capable of marching up there and forcing him to be social.”

Though Harry knew exactly to whom she was referring, he asked, “Who?” 

“Don’t be daft.”

“I don’t even know him. If he wants to be a hermit, that’s his choice.” She looked skeptical in that way that only Minerva could, so he added, “I don’t want to push him. He’s dealing with a lot right now and I feel sorry for him.”

She shook her head. “You shouldn’t,” she said with a resigned sigh.

Harry didn’t bother to ask her what she meant by that. Instead, he headed off for his first class, taking the long way as usual by the Defense classroom.

* * *

Tom established his teaching style immediately. He took one look at the starry-eyed girls and eager boys in his first class and decided to quash their enthusiastic curiosity about his person before it could get out of hand when one of them dared to ask if he would regale them with stories of his adventures.

“Ten points from Slytherin for straying from the subject at hand,” was Tom’s reply. When the boy sputtered indignantly that Tom shouldn’t dock points from his own house, Tom made it fifteen and assigned him a detention. It wasn’t yet ten o’clock.

Word must have travelled that Professor Riddle’s tolerance for idle classroom banter was nil, because as the day wore on the students began to regard him with less curiosity and more wariness.

By the end of the first week, Tom overheard a Hufflepuff girl remark to her seat mate, “He’s lovely in that broody sort of way, but he makes Snape look positively cuddly in comparison.”

Tom did not back down. He drilled the classes with questions and assigned lengthy essays, which he returned eviscerated with red ink. Students who were otherwise top in their studies regarded him as tough but fair, and students who slacked in their work found their marks plummeting. He ridiculed their lack of critical thinking skills and reminded them in no uncertain terms that failing his class was the least of their worries if they couldn’t master the skills he taught.

It wasn’t like there was a war on, one of them grumbled. There were no threats to wizarding life as they knew it.

“Ah,” said Tom with a rare smile, “but the most dire of threats are the ones you never see coming.”

The students went from wary to vaguely terrified after that, and Tom relaxed a bit into his routine.

Sleep eluded him more often than not. He lay in bed staring up at the shadowed stone ceiling, trying to drift off through sheer force of will. He removed the canopy and curtains after his first night there, finding them far too claustrophobic to sleep properly. He found a lot of things too claustrophobic lately, though he wished sincerely that he didn't. 

The clock in the sitting area of his quarters chimed three.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered, throwing back the blankets and swinging his legs around to sit on the edge of the bed. He ran a hand through his hair and glared in the clock's direction.

If he couldn't sleep, he might as well be productive. He pulled on his clothes from the day before and, stopping to pick up the stack of essays from the table in the sitting area, headed for his office. Suffering through fifth-year opinions on resisting mind control was better than staring at the ceiling.

Tom made it through all but a few of the essays before he noticed the pinkish light of dawn filtering through the window. Setting aside his quill, he laced his fingers together and stretched his arms over his head. His spine gave a satisfying pop.

"I'm surprised you're stirring at this hour," came crisp voice from the doorway. Tom looked up to find Minerva standing there, arms crossed and brow furrowed. "Did you even go to bed at all last night?"

Tom wondered why his sleeping habits were suddenly the deputy headmistress's concern, but replied that he had.

"Well, I was making the rounds at half past three, and the lights were on in here." She squinted at him over her spectacles. It was a different sort of over-the-glasses glare than Dumbledore's, one that implied Minerva would go to any lengths necessary to find out what was going on, including dissection.

Rather than argue over who was sleeping when, Tom asked drily, "Did you need something, Minerva?"

She pursed her lips and watched him thoughtfully. Tom waited her out with what was hopefully an expression of bland expectancy; he didn't want to give her the satisfaction of showing his impatience. He was no student and he would be damned if he let her treat him like one. Finally she said, "You should come to breakfast once in a while."

"What?" The suggestion came out of nowhere, and Tom didn't bother to hide his confusion.

"You should come to breakfast more often. Or at all."

"I'd rather not, Minerva," he began, but she cut him off with an impatient sigh.

"Being a recluse doesn't endear you to anyone," she intoned. "You're working from a deficit as it is."

"But I don't even like breakfast," he replied, annoyed that the words sounded as petulant as they did.

Minerva arched one thin brow. "You of all people should know that some sacrifices are necessary. For the greater good, is that how it goes?" 

Tom blinked. Never let it be said that Minerva pulled her punches. "That’s fair,” he said. “You don’t like me much, do you?”

“Never did.”

“Then why do you care if anyone else does?”

“Albus seems to think you’re no longer the manipulative flatterer I remember from school, but I’m withholding judgment. I don’t mind being wrong about people, as long as it’s for the right reasons. I’d like you to prove me wrong, but I will be neither surprised nor disappointed if you don’t.”

Tom sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face. “I shall be down directly," he said. Minerva merely nodded and disappeared down the stairs.

A short time later, Tom found himself in the Great Hall, wincing at the noise level. He'd forgotten how loud students could be, even when they were half awake. He made his way to the faculty table and sat in the vacant chair next to Harry, raising a defiant eyebrow at Minerva.

The chair was empty, but the section of table in front of it was occupied by a sprawling mass of papers that held Harry's undivided attention. It was only after Tom coughed that the flying instructor even realized someone was sitting next to him. "Sorry," said Harry around a scone, trying to corral the papers. "Quidditch rosters and stats," he explained when Tom squinted at the rows of numbers and names.

Tom muttered something in agreement and fixed his own attention to the cup of tea that appeared in front of him.

"This is the first time I've seen you at breakfast. I didn't think you ventured out in public until lunch."

It took Tom a moment to realize that Harry was speaking to him. He cleared his throat and answered, "Being a recluse doesn't endear you to anyone, apparently."

Harry's eyes darted to Minerva briefly, and Tom could swear he and the Transfiguration professor shared a smile. "Wise words," Harry said.

Tom snorted. Harry returned to his charts, leaving Tom to his own thoughts. No one else initiated conversation with him, though Tom listened without any real attention to Flitwick giving Snape tips on how to deal with homesick first years. Snape did not appear inclined to want to "deal with" them at all.

"The Duelling Club's meeting this evening," Harry said without looking up from his charts. "You should come."

Tom nabbed an orange from the platter that Flitwick was levitating from one end of the table to the other, and began peeling it in one long, continuous spiral. "I wouldn’t want to step on your toes."

Harry looked up. In the slice of morning sunlight that cut across the table, his eyes were very, very green. "Why not? You're the Defense teacher, you should see what the students can do. The only reason I’m the faculty sponsor is that Galatea got tired of dealing with it and passed it off to me. Besides, didn't you just say you should get out more?"

The idea of attending the Duelling Club meeting intrigued Tom. He would be able to observe Harry in action, something he had not managed to do since his return. He avoided the man as much as possible since Minerva’s comment at the Sorting.

He had also been itching to exercise some more challenging magic than what was required to teach his classes, but he was still trying to maintain something of a low profile. And, if he were completely honest with himself, he was still a bit jumpy. He worried that he might launch a curse at a student for something as benign as dropping a wand. Then again, that could happen at any point, so he couldn’t very well use it as a reason not to attend the meeting. 

None of this was anything he wished to share with Harry, so instead he replied, "I have essays to mark.” 

Harry laughed. "That's your own fault for assigning them in the first place." Tom started to interrupt, but Harry held up a hand. "Tom. You should come watch, at least. It's the only thing I do here besides Quidditch, and I figure I don't have a prayer of getting you out to a match."

"Ah," said Tom.

"We're meeting back here at nine," Harry said, gathering up his charts and plucking a segment of orange from Tom's hands. "See you then."

Tom frowned at the orange in his hands and wondered when, exactly, he had agreed to attend the meeting.

Despite a relatively auspicious start, it was one of those days during which his hip tugged at his attention persistently and that, coupled with the fact that his fatigue was catching up to him, made his temper a little shorter than usual. He curbed it as best he could once he realized he may very well have made a first-year Gryffindor girl cry, and instead took out his frustration on the rest of the essays during his lunch period.

When the second years complained loudly about the marks they'd received on their latest werewolf essays, Tom forced them to copy the line, "'Werewolf' is not a question," a hundred times without the aid of magic. This took most of the class period because of all the sulking that took place. He assigned six detentions, all of them involving nasty tasks like cleaning the owlery or scrubbing bedpans in the infirmary.

By the time the day was over and the last of the little heathens crept out of the classroom, Tom's hip was on fire and he had a splitting headache to match. He slung red ink across the rest of the essays with abandon until it was too dark to see without lighting the candles. The clock in the next room chimed nine.

"Hell," Tom muttered. The Duelling Club. He stacked the papers as neatly as possible and shoved them in a drawer and rushed out, locking the classroom behind him.

The Great Hall was just as noisy as it had been that morning at breakfast, except now the throng of students was strung so tightly they fairly vibrated with excitement. Tom hovered in the back, watching the students. It was easy to tell which of them were brand new to the concept of duelling; they waved their wands around willy-nilly and made little explosion noises as they pretended to fire spells at one another. The more experienced ones were still, talking quietly and keeping an eye on the front of the hall for Harry to call the meeting to order.

They did not have to wait long. Harry leaped up onto the table that had been transfigured into a regulation duelling platform and raised his hands, calling for attention. After a moment of raucous cheering, the students quieted. Tom couldn't help but smile. It was clear that Harry was both well-liked and well-respected by the students, a difficult tightrope to walk as a teacher. Tom wasn't sure where "feared and avoided" fell, but he was pretty sure that was the position he held, himself.

"May I have your attention, everyone?" Harry began, smiling as every pair of eyes in the room watched him eagerly. "Thank you. Welcome to the inaugural meeting of the Hogwarts Duelling Club. There should be a roster going around somewhere—oh, there it is, Alfie Winthrop has it—so if you could sign in, I'd appreciate it. If you're joining us for the first time, sign your name in the right column."

"When do we get to fight?" someone called.

"Duel, you mean," said Harry, emphasizing the proper terminology. "Sorry, it will be a while before some of us get to that. You can't duel until you've learned the procedure and a few basic spells."

"Should we have learned those in Defense?" another student asked. There was a buzz of agreement from the crowd. Harry smirked.

"Why don't you ask your Defense professor?" he replied, gesturing to the back of the room. The students froze for a moment, then slowly turned to gape at Tom as he leaned against a pillar in the back. Harry waved cheerfully before turning back to the student who had spoken up. "I'm sure Professor Riddle would be more than happy to explain his curriculum to you, Alecost." Alecost mumbled something Tom couldn't hear, but from the pleased look on Harry's face he assumed it was an apology.

Because there were so many students, Harry enlisted Tom's help in instructing them in the necessary information. Harry covered the beginners, for which Tom was thankful. He didn't know how many times he could correct their stance and pronunciation of the disarming spell. Tom took the more advanced students, who were watching him like cornered mice.

"Right," he said after an uncomfortable silence, "show me what you know."

There was a shuffling of feet, but no one stepped forward.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake," said Tom, throwing up his hands. "This isn't a class. I'm not writing down how well or how miserably you perform. You should take pride in your abilities, whether it is something you have already mastered or an skill you are cultivating. Take the opportunity to improve, or you're squandering the privilege of attending Hogwarts. If you're just going to stand there like a herd of sheep, you're wasting my time and yours."

They stared at him. Just as he was about to give up and tell Harry he was leaving, that this was a ridiculous idea in the first place, a girl with a brown bob stepped forward, a look of grim determination on her face. Theresa Ogilvie, Tom noted, Gryffindor, fifth year. One of the few whose essays weren't abysmal.

Aloud, he said, "Excellent, Miss Ogilvie." The girl looked at him with surprise. Tom supposed it was because he knew her name. "Who will join her?"

"I will, Professor," said a boy with a round face and a big smile, whose name Tom could not for the life of him remember. It must have shown in his face, because the boy shrugged, smile never faltering, and said, "Alfie Winthrop, sir. Nobody ever remembers me."

Tom couldn't help but return the boy's smile. "Let's see if we can change that, shall we?" he said, and gestured for Winthrop and Ogilvie to face off. Winthrop rolled up his sleeves.

"Take it easy on him, Theresa!" someone called. Ogilvie scowled. 

"She will do no such thing," Tom warned. "You'll never learn anything that way. I want to see what you know. And Mr. Winthrop, keep up with her. Right, then. Square off. Bow. Begin."

It might have been the shortest duel Tom had ever witnessed. Ogilvie launched a conjunctivitis curse with lightning reflexes, and Winthrop, to his credit, cried out, "Protego!" in time. His power wasn't enough to counter the spell, however, and he ended up thrown to the wall, blinking rapidly but grinning all the same.

"Excellent!" Tom said, helping Winthrop to his feet. "Work on the power behind those reflexes, Mr. Winthrop, and you will be quite the contender. Who's next?"

Suddenly it was as if the floodgates opened. Students clambered to take on Ogilvie, and when she lost to Robert Alecost, the students wanted to take him on. And so it went: students dueled until they were beaten, and then someone else stepped forward to challenge the winner. Tom corrected small things along the way; the angle of a wand, the response time before issuing the countercurse, the strategy behind selecting which curse might take advantage of an opponent's weaknesses.

Between making minor corrections to technique and making sure no one was severely injured, Tom observed Harry at work with the beginners. The flying instructor was remarkably patient, correcting mistakes without ire even when it was the twentieth time the same student had committed the same error. Harry seemed to genuinely enjoy helping the students.

Harry brought the activity to a close after an hour, announcing that the next meeting would be in two weeks. A few students tackled Harry with questions, and most of the rest shuffled their feet and didn't make any move to leave. Never one for idle chatter, Tom hung back from the melee, contemplating leaving and simply speaking to Harry in the morning.

"Professor Potter, sir, when can we see a real duel?" asked a blonde girl. 

"Yeah, we want to see a real duel!" a few others chimed in.

Harry held up a hand and the chorus of demands ceased. "I don't know what you mean by 'real,'" he said, trying to hide a smile. "The spells you learned today have been used in many duels, both competitive and during real battles."

"Not a practice one," someone said.

"With real, dangerous spells!"

"Yes! Can we, please?"

"Please, Professor?"

"Fine, fine," Harry said with a long-suffering sigh. He stepped onto the duelling platform. "Professor Riddle, will you join me? I know this isn't exactly my area of expertise, but I think I can keep up." Tom was acutely aware that everyone in the room was focused on him, but it was Harry's expectant gaze that he felt the most. After a moment's hesitation, Tom stepped onto the duelling platform, drew his wand from its home in the handle of his cane, and performed a low, sweeping bow.

"The niceties must be observed," he remarked, and Harry grinned and bowed in return. "Any restrictions?" Besides the Unforgiveables, Tom thought, which was mostly what their last duel had consisted of. 

"Let's try to keep it slow enough for them to follow, is all," Harry said. "Expelliarmus."

Tom deflected the spell easily and countered, "Stupefy."

Making sure they pronounced every spell and observed all the proper protocol made Tom feel as if he were casting spells underwater. At the edges of his vision, he could see the students watching with interest. For someone who professed no real expertise at duelling, Harry certainly had a flair for it, even at their current slow pace. Tom didn't have to imagine how good Harry might be if there were actually something at stake besides the wide-eyed students. Harry had nearly succeeded in killing him once—no, Tom had to remind himself firmly, that might as well have been a completely different person. That boy didn't tease him in the good-natured way Harry did, or even smile the same warm smile.

Tom’s mind was starting to wander into more introspective territory when a sudden streak of red light shot past his ear. Tom raised his eyebrows at his opponent. "You didn't voice that one," he said.

"Sorry,” Harry said, though judging by his grin, the slip had been an intentional one. "Was I boring you? Shall we pick it up a bit?"

"By all means," replied Tom with a smile, firing off a curse.

* * *

The duel had been lazy at first, but now it was really becoming heated, with curses flying unspoken. Though Harry knew Tom was hesitant to duel him at first, he appeared to be enjoying himself immensely. Even in a low-key duel like this one that clearly didn’t challenge him, he was thrilling to watch. He cast spells like he’d been doing it since the day he was born, with easy movements and such a loose grip on his wand that it seemed it would fly out of his long fingers any second.

It occurred to Harry that, if Tom wanted to, he could probably disintegrate him without batting an eye. If that thought made a not entirely unpleasant shiver run up his spine, well. Harry would think on that later. He wondered if it showed on his face, because Tom’s eyes narrowed a bit and his smile sharpened.

An enormous snake sprang forth from his wand and slithered menacingly toward Harry. The students gasped audibly, some shying away from the snake in fear and disgust. Harry wasn’t afraid of snakes, but the choice of spell did catch him by surprise. 

So did Tom speaking to the snake. That had to be what he did, anyway, because the snake glanced back at him and nodded before it stopped right in front of Harry, drawing itself up so its bobbing head was nearly eye-level.

Harry threw Tom a questioning glance before saying, "Evanesco." With a wave of his wand, the snake disappeared.

The students clapped in appreciation. Evidently their fear of the snake did not overshadow their joy at witnessing a decent wizard duel. They had a thousand questions, and they mobbed Harry the second the snake vanished.

“What spell was that?”

“Was that Parseltongue? What did you say say to it, Professor?”

“How much harder is it to cast spells without voicing them?”

“Is it more dangerous?”

Harry hopped off the table and managed to calm them down. “We’ll work on voiceless casting soon, I promise,” he said over the din. “We have a lot to get through before we get there, though.”

“What about the snake?”

“Yes, what about the snake, Professor Riddle?” Harry asked, turning in Tom’s direction. Tom, however, was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom deals with politics, boggarts, and developing feelings that he doesn't quite know what to do with. Harry deals with Tom being Tom. Neither of them has an easy time of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is ready a bit early, so here you go!
> 
> Possible trigger warning for a panic attack. It doesn't last long and it isn't due to any new trauma that hasn't already been mentioned or depicted, but I thought I should give a heads up.

He made a split-second decision and cast a voiceless Serpensortia because he just had to know.

He was an idiot. Of course Harry couldn’t speak Parseltongue. And Tom couldn’t stop thinking about the quizzical look Harry sent him before ending the duel.

Tom did not attend breakfast the following morning, Minerva's well-meaning meddling be damned, and he managed to avoid all other human contact until he stalked down the stairs to the Defense classroom at his usual time.

Harry was perched on top of one of the desks, flipping through a textbook. Tom paused on the stairs and considered, briefly, that perhaps he could go away and come back without Harry noticing. 

"Missed you at breakfast," Harry said without looking up. Perhaps, thought Tom as he gripped the banister rather more tightly than was necessary, he was not as stealthy as he thought he was. He blamed the cane.

"Sorry," he managed. 

Harry snapped the textbook shut with a cloud of dust and hopped off the desk. When he finally looked at Tom, he made a face. "You look terrible. Did you sleep at all? Nevermind, I already know the answer," he added with a dismissive wave before Tom could muster a response. "The students were disappointed that you left so quickly last night. They were very impressed."

"Oh," said Tom. "I had to…" he trailed off and indicated his hip, which was not in the least his reason for leaving so abruptly the night before, but which was currently not pleased with him as he descended the final few stairs and came to stand nearer to Harry.

Harry nodded in understanding. "They wanted to know what you said to the snake."

"What did you tell them?"

"I told them I didn't know," said Harry. "They were a little taken aback by the Parseltongue. So was I, I suppose. Had to explain to a few of them that it wasn’t a skill that could be taught, because they thought it was just about the wickedest thing they’d ever seen. That’s a good thing, in case you were wondering.” 

"Right,” Tom replied. After just a moment's hesitation, he asked, "So you really couldn't understand what I said to the snake?"

"No, I'm no Parselmouth," Harry said. Then, regarding Tom with a look of amused suspicion, he added, "But you thought I was."

"Of course not," Tom said, but the speed of his denial only made Harry tilt his head expectantly. Unsure how or even if he should explain his reasons for casting the spell, Tom hedged. "I…I suppose in the heat of the moment, I was thinking of someone else." It wasn't exactly a lie, and it wasn't the entire difficult truth, either. The Harry with whom Tom had conversed in Parseltongue was a completely different person from the one standing in front of him now. That much was becoming abundantly clear. 

"Do you miss being able to speak with someone who understands Parseltongue?" Harry asked. The question caught him a bit off-guard.

"No," he said, "I spent most of my life being the only one who could understand it. It was only briefly that I knew someone else who could speak it. But that person is gone, so I don't know why I was thinking of them.” Harry let that go, thankfully, and Tom continued, “I told the snake to be nice. That you were a friend." As soon as he said it, he felt like an idiot. His fears proved unfounded, however, when Harry smiled.

"And friends let friends help them. So the next time you're hidden away in your hermit cave and you can't sleep, would you let me know? I’m usually up at some ungodly hour, anyway. I'll read you arithmancy textbooks until you're bored to sleep."

Tom must have looked uncertain, because Harry stepped a bit closer and gave him a stern look that rivaled Minerva. "I mean it, Tom. You're proud. I get it. But you've been through a lot—and no, I don't know the details, but don't deny it. You can't keep going it alone. You have to let us in sometime."

Tom felt lightheaded, but it was a different sort of lightheadedness than what often found him when he was fighting the pain in his hip and smothered by the darkness in the wee hours of the morning. After a moment, he said, "No arithmancy. It's too interesting.”

“You’re joking.”

“Do you play chess?"

Harry grinned. "That I do," he said. "And one more thing. Try dressing a candle with sandalwood oil. It's always helped me sleep when I'm nervous before or after a match. It might help you, too." Students were starting to mill about in the hallway and a few were ducking cautiously into the classroom. Heading for the door, Harry pointed at Tom. "See you at dinner?"

"All right," Tom said. Harry smiled again and was gone with a wave. Tom was lost in thought for a moment before he realized there was a student hovering at his elbow. He looked down to find Alfie Winthrop grinning expectantly at him. "Yes, Mr. Winthrop?"

"Morning, Professor," said Winthrop. He just stood there for a moment before Tom raised an eyebrow.

"Did you need something?"

"Oh. No," Winthrop replied. "Just wanted to say good morning. And that Duelling Club was really great yesterday."

"Ah. I'm glad you enjoyed it. You showed real improvement."

"Will you be coming back? Sir?"

Tom thought for a moment. "I think I might," he said. Winthrop grinned and found his way to his seat.

The next day, Tom found a Quidditch trading card on his desk. On one side was Harry Potter, wearing red and white robes, making a spectacular dive for the Snitch above a banner that read, "Quidditch World Cup 2002." On the reverse was a list of statistics that meant nothing to Tom. In very tiny print at the bottom, it read, "Say hello to the face of the 424th Quidditch World Cup! It should not surprise anyone that Harry Potter led the English National team to victory. Upon signing with the Chudley Cannons as Seeker in 1998, he led the team to their first league championship since 1892. If Potter can make the Cannons a contender, then he truly must be a skilled wizard!" 

Tom scowled, but he propped the card up against the runespoor skull on his desk anyway.

* * *

After that, Tom seemed to accept Harry’s presence a little more easily. He came to breakfast more often, though he still avoided other meals. Harry stopped hounding him about it once Tom admitted he disliked lunch and dinner because there were more people in the Great Hall at those times and it made him uneasy. He didn’t go into detail, but Harry knew what it cost Tom to confess such a weakness, so he refrained from comment.

Tom still watched him sometimes. It still seemed as if he were trying to unravel a particularly difficult puzzle, but he didn’t seem as bothered by the fact that he had yet to solve it.

They were a month into the term when Hagrid appeared in the faculty lounge, where Harry had convinced Tom to join him and a smattering of other faculty members for tea while they worked. “Afternoon, Harry! Tom,” said Hagrid. He was covered in cobwebs from heaven only knew what activity. He had a steamer trunk balanced on one shoulder. “I found a wardrobe with a great, grumpy boggart in it fer your classes like ye asked.”

“Wonderful. You can put it--”

“I took the liberty o’ takin’ it upstairs fer ye. And while I was lookin fer that, I came across this. I know Dumbledore mentioned you were lookin' fer yer things." It was dusty and had its fair share of scuffs and dents, but Harry realized it must be Tom’s school trunk from when he was a student. Hagrid deposited it in front of Tom as if it weighed nothing; an impressive feat, considering how many books a younger Tom must have squeezed into it.

"Hagrid, thank you," Tom said, setting his current reading aside to wipe the dust from the latches.

"Don't mention it. It's been in storage, and I needed to dig around in there, anyway. Had an infestation o' doxies to remove, y'know." Upon seeing Tom's expression, he patted the lid of the trunk and said, "Relatively sure there ain't none in here, though. Harry, I’ll be de-gnoming the pumpkin patch later this afternoon. I know you enjoy tossin’ the little guys around. Want to give me a hand?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Harry replied with a grin. 

Tom thanked Hagrid again before he left, then turned his attention to the trunk and lifted the lid. “I’ve been somewhat preoccupied at the start of the term , so I’ve only recently thought to inquire what happened to my belongings when I left from Hogwarts. I suppose Albus stored them away in my absence.”

Harry peered over his shoulder. "It's like a time capsule," he said.

"A very boring one, I assure you," Tom replied. "And how do you know about time capsules?"

"Mum's Muggleborn," Harry said. "Never spent much time with her side of the family, but when we did visit them my cousin was practically glued to the television. I remember seeing them bury a time capsule on some program when we were visiting once—oh. You missed television, didn't you?"

Tom shrugged. "I imagine it isn't a terrible loss."

"It isn't," Harry agreed. He peered inside after Tom extracted an impressive stack of school books. He pulled out a few sheets of parchment and a quill that had seen its fair share of use. "Not much of a hoarder, are we?" he said.

"I couldn't afford much. Orphanage, remember?" said Tom wryly. He examined the books one by one with more attention than was strictly necessary, clearly hoping Harry wouldn't notice his embarrassment. 

Harry made no comment, and instead reached further into the recesses of the trunk. "What’s this?” He held up a small, leather-bound book. “A diary? What secrets did teenaged Tom Riddle write about? Is there blackmail material on Minerva in here?”

He was focused on the genuine disappointment he felt when he flipped through the pages and found them blank, and didn’t even register the ferocious gleam in Tom’s eye until the diary rocketed out of his hands and into Tom’s possession so quickly that Harry got a paper cut.

“Ow,” he said, examining the thin line of red that blossomed on the pad of his thumb. “What the hell, Tom?”

“Sorry. It was a gift. I never had a use for it,” he said, his casual tone belying the flash of...whatever that had been, Harry thought as he watched Tom carefully tuck the diary into the interior pocket of his robes. 

That was no ordinary blank book, but this was obviously not the time to push Tom about it. Instead, Harry tried to lead the conversation down a lighter path. “I’ll bet you just charmed the hell out of it so no one could read it.”

“I wouldn’t tell you if I did,” Tom said firmly. “Even if I had written in it, you wouldn’t be interested in what you’d find there. You wouldn’t have liked me much when I was a student.”

“No one is likable at that age,” said Harry with a grin. “Besides, I’m sure you were too busy plotting world domination or something to pay me any mind.”

“Hmm,” was Tom’s only reply, lost in thought for the briefest of moments before coming back to the present. His eyes registered Harry sucking the blood from the cut on his thumb before looking away and clearing his throat uncomfortably. It was so opposite the flare of predatory reflexes he’d witnessed just moments before that Harry was left at a loss as to what to even say to Tom. 

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” Tom said quietly.

“I’ll live,” said Harry. “Though next time, I’ll just hand it back to you, if it’s all the same.”

Tom nodded, clearly chastened, and excused himself. Harry sat there for a while longer, lost in thought.

* * *

Later, during class change, Tom sat at his desk and stared at the small, black book for what felt like an eternity. As much as he felt he had changed over the years, before him was a concrete reminder of what he had been, and what he might have become. Tom had no idea what to do with it. One didn't simply throw away a piece of one's soul, even if he wanted to get rid of it. Knowing it existed gave him some modicum of comfort, even if he was less proud of its creation than he was years ago.

Perhaps he could undo it, he thought. Was it even possible to repair a soul? What research he had done before creating the Horcrux years ago had yielded little information about destroying them, let alone reuniting them with the maker's soul. And Tom was hesitant to do any further research now, as closely as he was being scrutinized by his the public.

To top it all off, his mind kept wandering back to that moment when Harry brought his thumb to his mouth. The gesture itself was innocent enough, considering he’d only done it because Tom had injured him--if a paper cut even counted as an injury--but damn if the sight hadn’t seated itself firmly in Tom’s memory.

The whole dilemma gave him a headache, something he certainly did not want when he could hear the next group of students already milling about in the classroom. He would figure out what to do with the Horcrux later, he resolved. In the meantime, he had to keep it safe. He tucked it in the bottom drawer of his desk beneath the stacks of notes for his lectures, cast a quick charm to ease his aching head, and turned his attention to the class ahead of him. They were soon to be learning about Unforgiveables, and Tom had an appointment to speak with Albus before demonstrating the curses in class. First, he had to get through this lecture without snapping at any of the students the way he had snapped at Harry earlier.

When Tom arrived in the headmaster's office a few hours later, an unfamiliar man was seated in one of the chairs opposite the desk. Tom hesitated in the doorway for a moment, but Albus waved him in good-naturedly.

"What a wonderful coincidence," he said, standing. "I was about to send for you. Tom, this is Draco Malfoy. Draco, Tom." The other man stood and offered his hand. Tom shook it, noting the Ministry badge pinned to the man's robes. Physically, Draco reminded him of Abraxas Malfoy, who'd been in Slytherin while Tom had been in school. If Draco were like the rest of the Malfoy clan, he thought, then he was likely to be proud and pretentious. 

"Mr. Malfoy," he acknowledged with a curt nod.

"Pleasure, Mr. Riddle," said Malfoy.

"May I inquire as to the subject of this meeting?" Tom asked smoothly as he seated himself. "I wasn't informed beforehand."

Albus ignored the peevish tone of his remark. "Tom, Draco is here to represent the Ministry in an official capacity. As you know, the general response to your being hired on has been positive, though there has been the odd complaint. The Board doesn’t believe they have much merit."

“And yet, Mr. Malfoy is here,” said Tom. It took every ounce of self control Tom had not to laugh and hex him out the window. "And what might these complaints be?"

Malfoy shrugged. "Mostly that you're unfit to teach, which I cannot for the life of me understand," he said. "Your records from school here are perfect. No disciplinary issues, plenty of awards and honors. Your employment record is a bit spotty, but I imagine that's because you were out gallivanting around the afterlife."

And there was the familiar, condescending Malfoy tone. Tom narrowed his eyes. He had been charming people into doing exactly what he wanted—whether they wanted to, or not—since long before Malfoy was born. The very idea that this little idiot would judge him fit or unfit to do anything was laughable. "Then I suppose this is the wrong time to inform you that I plan to demonstrate the Unforgiveables to the Seventh Years tomorrow," he said with a wry smile in Albus's direction. The headmaster must have seen Tom's irritation through his forced smile, because his eyebrows rose in warning over the top of his half-moon spectacles.

"If you want my opinion," Malfoy went on, "all the complaints can be traced back to Dilys Summerby. She's telling everyone this ridiculous story about how you attacked her during school. The official record states it was some vagrant who appeared on school grounds, so I haven’t a clue what she's talking about. But she's on the Wizengamot, so people listen to her even if she sounds mad."

"Ah," said Tom, steadfastly not thinking about how he actually had attacked Dilys Summerby in an attempt to save the vagrant—Harry's—life. 

"What Draco is saying, Tom, is that it would appear that you have a powerful enemy in Ms. Summerby," Albus said gently.

While he was happy to know Harry in this time, part of Tom wished he had cursed Summerby into a fine, red mist. Aloud, he asked, "Albus, do you feel I have been negligent in fulfilling my duties as an instructor?"

"Not at all, my boy," said Albus. "But it would behoove you to be very careful from now on. Know that you are being watched and measured at all times, despite your vast knowledge and obvious care for the students. A witch like Dilys Summerby is not one to let this go."

"She's like a terrier," Malfoy sniffed. "So you might want to be particularly careful around her niece. Vera, is it?"

"I don't have to be careful around her. She avoids me at all costs," said Tom with a wry smile.

"Then perhaps you should exercise some of the charm I so fondly recall from your school days and befriend Miss Summerby," Albus replied. 

"And here I thought you found my charm rather suspicious, Albus," said Tom. Albus just blinked at him innocently over his spectacles. "Fine," said Tom with a sigh. He wished Dilys Summerby would request a meeting with him, personally, so he could just obliviate the hag and be done with it. "Is that all? I’m late for the Duelling Club. I promised Harry I would help again."

"Yes, gentlemen, that is all," Albus said. Tom stood, ready to plough through the pleasantries and make a mad dash for the door.

"I'll walk with you. I actually told Harry I would stop by for a moment on my way out," Malfoy said, swiftly catching up with Tom before he could descend the spiral staircase and make his escape. 

So Malfoy knew Harry. Tom ground his teeth, but smiled. "Of course," he said. "You can come watch me not torture the little darlings."

"Oh, and Tom? Go ahead with your demonstration as planned." Albus waved them out.

Malfoy snorted. "Vera Summerby must not be a Seventh Year." The observation just made Tom's scowl deepen.

They arrived in the Great Hall together as Harry was explaining the evening's activities. He set the students up in pairs to practice various tickling charms on each other.

"It sounds like the third floor of St. Mungo's," Tom observed dryly. Malfoy chuckled.

"I like this one," he said to Harry. 

"I'm pretty fond of him, myself," said Harry with a grin in Tom's direction. "Have you been sacked yet?"

"Not yet, but we're hardly halfway through the term." When Malfoy laughed again, Tom smothered a sneer and excused himself to coach some of the students. As he corrected a nearby girl's stance and wand movements, he watched Harry and Malfoy continue their friendly chat.

"Who is that, Professor?" Alfie Winthrop asked as Tom approached him and Theresa Ogilvie.

"An old friend of Professor Potter's," Tom replied tersely. "Watch that swish and flick, Mr. Winthrop."

"They seem very chummy," Ogilvie observed after blocking Winthrop's next attempt at the jinx. She did not look very pleased.

Though he was in thorough agreement with her, Tom said, "Nevermind how they seem, Miss Ogilvie. Focus on the task at hand." He glanced at Harry and Malfoy, who were laughing about something, and scowled. He didn't quite catch the meaningful look exchanged between Ogilvie and Winthrop.

As the Duelling Club was breaking up for the night, Tom made a point to wish Harry good evening before they all went their separate ways. Malfoy shook his hand again and said something about wishing Tom had been their Defense teacher, and not to worry about Dilys Summerby. Before he did something he would regret—like hexing all the bones out of Malfoy's perfectly manicured hands—Tom excused himself and retired to the seclusion of his own quarters.

He had missed dinner, so he stopped by the kitchens and secured a sandwich from the house elves on his way back upstairs. He wasn't hungry, exactly, but when Harry asked him the next day if he had eaten anything, he could answer honestly that he had. When he entered the Defense classroom, he found the boggart-ridden wardrobe Hagrid had promised him earlier. Tom knew he needed to check to see how the boggart would respond to him before chancing such an encounter in front of students. His thoughts turned to the owl-woman and he shivered.

He marked assignments as he ate his sandwich. The sandwich was good, and the essays were an improvement over the last batch he had read, though Tom still noted the need for additional work on their citation skills. He made certain he had the materials prepared for the Seventh Years' lecture on the Unforgiveables. After that, he rearranged the collection of skulls and various animal bits that had outgrown the corner of his desk and spread over to the bookshelf next to it. When he found himself debating whether to arrange his quills according to their frequency of use or the scientific name of the birds from whence they came, Tom knew he had delayed dealing with the boggart long enough.

His hip spasmed painfully and he grimaced. To hell with it, he thought. It was just a boggart. He had dealt with them many times as a student, so why should he be concerned about them now? He just had to get it over with to be sure he wouldn’t have any problems during the next day’s class. He stood back a respectable distance and opened the wardrobe with a flick of his wand.

He expected Death to crawl out of the wardrobe and spread her wings. Death had always been the thing he feared the most, after all. Instead, the boggart staggered out the door as Harry Potter. He looked exactly the way Tom remembered when he appeared a lifetime ago, emaciated and murderous, time swinging on a chain from his neck. The sight took him aback. All thought of the simple spell to chase the boggart away vanished from his mind as Harry's baleful, accusing eyes glared at him from the deep shadows on his too-thin face.

"Riddikulus," said Tom, but his voice shook. 

"You did this to me," said the boggart-Harry, and suddenly he started to decay before Tom's eyes, flesh sagging before pulling tight like leather across his bones, skeletal fingers gripping a wand that was aimed directly at Tom's heart.

"Riddikulus!" Tom said again, this time with more conviction. The boggart-Harry paused and wavered. "Riddikulus!" Finally, having had enough, Tom threw the word at the boggart with such force that the creature was hurled back into the wardrobe with a resounding crash.

Tom sank to the floor, breath heaving and shaking so hard his teeth rattled in his skull. 

The clock sounded a quarter past two.

He couldn’t say whether it was the thought of his students seeing such weakness or the urgent need to confirm that Harry was safe that had him racing toward Harry's quarters on the sixth floor, not even caring that his hip tugged painfully with every step. He knocked persistently at the door until Harry appeared, disheveled and half-awake. "Tom? What's wrong?"

Tom had grown accustomed to seeing this Harry, happy and healthy, but his encounter with the boggart made him even more grateful for it now. It was unfortunate then, that he could not express these thoughts aloud because he couldn't find the air to do so. So Tom stood there, shaking, jaw working but unable to produce a sound. Harry seemed to grow instantly more alert, and he ushered Tom inside with a hand on his shoulder. 

Tom allowed himself to be pushed gently into an overstuffed chair. "Head down. Breathe," said Harry, and Tom thought absently that it was a silly demand to make. Of course he was breathing. Then he realized there were black spots wriggling at the edges of his vision and that he was not, in fact, breathing. Perhaps Harry's reminder was not so unnecessary. Harry perched on the arm of the chair and his hand never left Tom’s back, moving in small, comforting circles as he murmured quiet reassurances.

When Tom finally got enough air to speak, his voice sounded tinny and distant to his own ears. "I thought I'd make sure the boggart was still in the old wardrobe. They've never bothered me, really, but this time—"

"Is this the first time you've dealt with one since...well, since?"

Tom nodded.

"Was it Death?"

Still trying to calm his breathing, Tom shook his head. "No, but it wasn't anything the students need to see."

"And the lesson is tomorrow," said Harry, understanding Tom's predicament. "I'd be happy to fill in." He didn't inquire any further into what form the boggart had taken, and Tom could have hugged him, if he could just stop shaking. Harry watched him for a moment, hand still warm against his back. "Are you sure you don't need the entire day? There's no shame in taking time to recover."

"No," he said, too quickly and too loudly. He was drenched in a cold sweat, but his breath was coming easier now, the tightness in his chest slowly loosening. In its place bloomed a heated shame. He knew the boggart had been just that, but his time in the Underworld simply refused to leave him be. He had made a fool of himself in front of Harry. Eyes firmly glued to the floor, Tom shrugged away from Harry’s hand and added, "No. I can handle the rest. Just that lesson. They're first tomorrow."

He looked up to find Harry's mouth was set in a stubborn line that indicated he disagreed, but he did not argue. Tom still saw the look in his eyes and it galled him. "What?" he demanded furiously. "I just need the lesson covered. I don't need your pity."

Harry knelt down in front of him, forcing him to meet his gaze. "No, you don't," he agreed. "Though I do feel sorry for you."

"That isn’t why I came here."

"I'm afraid it doesn't work like that. And I don't feel sorry for you because of anything you've been through. I feel sorry for you because you're an idiot."

Tom blinked. He had been called many things in his life, but that was a new one. "What?"

"I don’t mean it as an insult to your intelligence. I know what a powerful wizard you are, Tom. You couldn’t hide it if you tried. But that doesn’t mean you can’t be an idiot about other things. Case in point, I'm proud to be your friend, and you are an idiot if you think seeing you like this will change that. And the same goes for almost everyone else here."

Tom's anger abated somewhat at Harry's impassioned pronouncement, though he still felt frustrated with the state of his mind and body. "My apologies," he said quietly. “I would say I have not been myself, but I am not certain what that means anymore.”

Harry smiled gently. “You’re allowed to be frustrated. And I don’t even mind if you take it out on me. I can handle it, but I’m not convinced the students can.”

“Survival of the fittest,” Tom grumbled, and was rewarded with a laugh. Harry was still kneeling in front of him, and Tom was suddenly struck by a pang of longing, despite Harry’s unbelievable bedhead and threadbare Chudley Cannons tee-shirt. Tom’s fingers twitched and he looked away. “I'm not…that is, I never had any friends. I don't think I'm very good at it."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Don't feel sorry for me, he says," he said with a chuckle. "You're incredible. All right, then. I will cover your boggart lesson on one condition: you should see Severus tomorrow. He might be able to give you something to help your insomnia, or perhaps even your hip."

Tom nodded reluctantly, and Harry positively beamed. "Right, then. If you don't need to be awake for your first class, then you're taking something to help you sleep." He disappeared into the recesses of what must have been his bedroom and emerged a moment later with a bottle of Dreamless Sleep. 

Tom balked. "I'm fine, really," he began, but Harry was having none of it. 

"Just take half a dose. I'll make sure you're up and functioning in the morning, I promise."

After a moment's hesitation, Tom finally relented and took the purple bottle from Harry. "Thanks," he said as he stood, embarrassed for having interrupted Harry's night. "I'm sorry I woke you. I'll just go."

Again, Harry gave him a stern but pitying look. "You're not going anywhere. How am I supposed to check on you if you go back to your quarters?"

"But—"

"You take the bed. I have to be up and on the Quidditch pitch in a couple of hours, anyway, so I don't mind taking the sofa." He smiled at Tom's reticence. "You can't very well sleep on it, with your hip. Go on, then. I'll be right out here."

Tom, feeling a bit bewildered on top of the fading effects of the panic attack, could only nod and obey. He shuffled off in the direction of the bedroom to which Harry had gone earlier. 

The room was a bit smaller than his own, but there was a large window looking out over the lake, which Tom could barely discern in the early morning dark. He turned with trepidation to the bed, eyeing the curtains with a touch of uncertainty. Tom had unceremoniously removed the curtains from his own bed after a fit of claustrophobia; watching them burn in the fireplace had been oddly satisfying. He certainly couldn't do the same to Harry's bed curtains, so he decided to rely on the sleeping draught and hope it began to work before he started to feel too smothered. 

He took a small sip of the potion and left the bottle on the bedside table, next to the framed photographs of people Tom had never met. There was one of Harry with a ginger boy and a girl with bushy hair from Harry's days as a student, as well as one of him from what had to be a few years later with the same two people and a few more students from various houses. There was also one of a very young Harry—first year, at least—in Gryffindor Quidditch robes, gripping a snitch proudly before he was mobbed by the rest of the team.

Tom distantly recalled seeing flashes of these very same people in the other Harry's memories, when he touched the lightning-shaped curse scar on the boy's forehead. It didn't matter now, Tom chided himself as he pulled the bed curtains aside and climbed in. That version of Harry existed only in his mind now, apparently as his greatest fear. Strange, that the thing he feared the most was that he had failed to make any real difference in the life of someone else. He could feel his eyelids growing heavier as the potion began to take effect, and he lay back against the pillow carefully, trying to disturb the bedclothes as little as possible, trying not to acknowledge the part of him that relished the fact that the sheets smelled like Harry.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry teaches the boggart lesson, and Tom gets some help from Snape. Meanwhile, some students try to steer their favorite ship. It goes about as well as could be expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of Tom's POV here than Harry's. Harry is remarkably patient where Tom is concerned, but even he has his limits. I keep worrying about the slow burn being too slow, but then I remember that the action in Chamber of Secrets really didn't ramp up until about halfway through the book.
> 
> Whoops, was that a hint?

Harry didn’t sleep much after putting Tom to bed. The sofa was perfectly comfortable and Harry had slept on it before, mostly by accident, but the knowledge that Tom was in the next room kept him from slipping into anything resembling a deep sleep. Finally he threw off the blanket--an orange and black knitted monstrosity gifted to him by Molly Weasley when he signed with the Cannons--and stood by the bedroom door for a moment. There was no discernible sound from within. He peeked inside just to be sure Tom hadn’t slipped out while he dozed on the sofa, but there was a conspicuous lump beneath the coverlet that told Harry his friend was just sleeping like the dead for what was likely the first time in weeks. He closed the door quietly and went about his morning routine as usual.

He knew he had promised Tom that he would wake him in time to be ready for his later morning classes, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. His own schedule that day was wide open, so he decided to leave Tom be until he woke up on his own. Harry was confident that he could cover all of Tom’s classes if necessary. Knowing he would face Tom’s irritation for letting him have an unscheduled lie-in, Harry charmed a cup of tea and an orange and left them on the table in the sitting area as a sort of apology before he headed down to breakfast.

He greeted the students as they filed into the Defense classroom as if his presence there were perfectly normal. “Professor Riddle is a bit under the weather this morning, so he asked that I cover your lesson,” he explained. A few students exchanged glances, but before Harry could address this, the wardrobe at the front of the classroom rattled. The group of students, who had been standing in a rough semicircle, shifted minutely further away from the wardrobe.

“Oh, nothing to worry about,” Harry said. “It’s only a boggart.”

Now the glances exchanged by the students were significantly more alert and nervous. A few of the Muggle-born students had no clue what he was talking about and were, therefore, unfazed by the announcement. Winthrop and most of the others looked uneasy but determined. Vera Summerby looked ill.

“Boggarts are shape-shifters. Can anyone tell me why no one knows what they actually look like?”

“Because they change shape as soon as they’re seen,” a Hufflepuff girl answered when Harry called on her.

“Indeed, but what do they change into? Mr. Dunbar?”

The Ravenclaw boy replied, “They change into your worst fear.”

“Very good,” Harry said, noting that the Muggle-borns were now eyeing the wardrobe apprehensively, as well. “Boggarts like dark, confined spaces, just like this wardrobe. And if you open the door, Mr. Dunbar, it will change its form into that of your worst fear. What might that be?”

“An octopus, sir,” said Dunbar, scratching the back of his neck uneasily when a few students laughed.

“Our fears are seldom rational,” Harry said, shushing the others. “Now, the good news is that because there are several of us, the boggart will become confused and distracted because it doesn’t know which fear to mimic. That buys us time to defend ourselves. Repeat after me...riddikulus!”

The students practiced the charm a few times, and Harry explained, “What repels a boggart most is laughter. The riddikulus charm will, with a bit of imagination on our part, turn the boggart into something we find amusing. When we laugh, the boggart is repelled. So imagine something funny, and here we go. Ready, Mr. Dunbar?”

Harry stepped back and opened the wardrobe with a flick of his wand. A giant greyish-pink octopus slithered out and his the floor with a wet smack. Its tentacles made little sucking pops along the floor as it advanced on them.

“Riddikulus!” Dunbar cried, and with the sound of a whip-crack, the octopus suddenly had a very silly sock puppet on each tentacle. Everyone laughed, and the boggart drew back, confused.

“Excellent, Mr. Dunbar! Next!”

One by one, students stepped into proximity of the boggart. The boggart changed into one fear after another, and each time the students effectively turned it away.

Harry was the only one who noticed Tom ease the classroom door open and slip inside as Alfie Winthrop was facing down the boggart with admirable courage, considering it had taken on the appearance of a rather intimidating old man who was pointing a finger at him and shrieking, "Squib! Squib!

Winthrop frowned, visibly steeled himself, and cried, "Riddikulus!" The man looked startled and began to turn himself around like a dog chasing its tail, trying to see what was on his back. A piece of parchment that read, "Jinx Me," had been spellotaped to the back of his elaborately tacky robes. The class cackled with glee. Winthrop grinned.

"Very good! Miss Summerby, you’re next!” Harry said.

The girl was obviously quite nervous. When she neared the boggart, it glared at her and changed shape, abandoning its quest to see what Winthrop had done to it.

Everyone in the classroom gasped. A few students chuckled nervously. Vera's boggart had taken on the shape of what was clearly Tom himself, albeit an exaggeration. He looked like a villain from a fairytale, thin and gaunt, and his eyes gleamed red as they fixed on Summerby. The girl swallowed fearfully. "Riddikulus," she squeaked, but the boggart-Tom just advanced on her, slowly, predatorily.

"Try again, Miss Summerby," Harry coached. "Picture something that makes you laugh!"

Summerby pointed her wand with a bit more conviction and cried, "Riddikulus!" Suddenly the boggart-Tom was sporting the tartan hat that McGongall wore to Quidditch games. The class laughed outright and the boggart, confused, retreated into the wardrobe. Summerby turned to her classmates, beaming, when she caught sight of Tom in the doorway. The color drained from her face as she stared, and the laughter died out as the rest of the class turned to find their professor watching them with an inscrutable look on his face.

Harry waved to him, ignoring the tension in the room. "Glad to see you're back, Professor," he said. "Everyone fared remarkably well against the boggart. But then, I'm sure you saw enough of the lesson to know that."

Summerby was still watching Tom as if he were a snake about to strike. Harry didn’t know why she was so afraid of him, but she was. After a moment, Tom said, "I thought the hat was rather fetching. Are you implying I shouldn't ask Professor McGongall if I might borrow it?" The class chuckled, the tension slowly abating. "Very nice work, Miss Summerby," Tom added. The girl gave him a hesitant smile. 

Turning to Harry, Tom said, "I believe I can take it from here. Thank you for filling in, Professor Potter."

"Anytime," Harry replied. He was nearly out the door when he paused and added, "Oh, and Professor Snape is expecting you after the last class of the day."

Tom’s eyes narrowed a bit at Harry taking the liberty of making the appointment, but Harry merely grinned at him. Tom rolled his eyes and shut the door behind Harry with a flick of his wand.

* * *

After the last students were dismissed, Tom locked up and headed for Snape’s office. He would keep his promise to Harry, even if he felt it was a fool’s errand. He had hardly knocked on the door before Snape called for him to enter.

The room was dimly lit and lined with shelves full of glass bottles and jars. Some of the specimens looked as if they dated back to Tom’s days as a student. Snape was writing something at his desk and didn’t even bother to look up as Tom entered.

"You should have come to me sooner."

"Forgive me, but I thought the fact that every expert I've seen thus far has thrown up their hands in confusion indicated that seeing another might be a waste of time."

"While I agree with your assessment of the hospital's expertise, or lack thereof," Snape replied, "they are passable with the usual ailments. They are not, however, terribly good with the unusual ones. They are rarely open to experimental therapies. I believe I may be able to provide you some relief, but I need details before I begin."

"It was Death. She...mauled me, I suppose."

Snape raised an eyebrow, but apparently didn't question the veracity of Tom's explanation. "The wound goes to the bone, correct?"

Tom nodded. "St. Mungo's said it was magical necrosis of the bone."

Snape was plucking bottles of ingredients from the shelves, not even bothering to look back at Tom. "And what triggers the pain?"

“Anything you would expect to trigger a wound like this. Moving too much or too quickly, sitting still for too long, being alive...”

"Any other symptoms?"

"Not related to the wound, no."

Snape gave him a narrow look. "You are not sleeping."

"Why is everyone here so concerned with my sleeping habits?"

"I'm including seer's sage. It has no pain relieving properties, but it can help with anxiety."

"I don't need—"

"Your body cannot heal itself if you do not give it time to do so. That means sleep." Tom must have looked as if he might argue, because Snape continued, "I harbor no illusions that the reports in the _Prophet_ on your exploits are accurate, but I do know that you have been through a traumatic experience. I imagine you have been dealing with anxiety, flashbacks, lost time, and violent outbursts in addition to the sleeplessness?"

Tom stared at the floor, unable to argue with the truth. "Perhaps," he admitted. "Anxiety and an intense dislike for confined spaces and crowds. Short temper, perhaps, but that isn't anything new according to Minerva."

Snape nodded. "I'm giving you a vial of Dreamless Sleep, but the seer's sage in the other elixir will help, as well. And dress a candle—"

"Sandalwood oil, I know," said Tom. "Harry suggested that." Harry was right about a lot of things—the Dreamless Sleep, the anxiety, needing something to do besides marking essays.

Snape scowled.

"You don't like him much, do you?"

"He was the epitome of the kind of student I despised while in school, myself," he said. After a moment he added, looking as if it pained him to admit it, "He has, however, proven to be a competent instructor."

"I promise I won’t tell him you said that."

"Most disturbing," Snape muttered. It took Tom a moment to realize he wasn't referring to Harry.

"I beg your pardon?"

"It would appear someone has been stealing ingredients from my stores." Snape held a large glass jar up to the light. 

Tom sat up straighter, despite the pain in his hip. "What's missing?"

"Valerian," said Snape, eyes sweeping critically across the contents of the shelves. "Powdered moonstone, hellebore, ashwinder eggs—"

"What an odd combination of ingredients," Tom said.

"Indeed. There is no potion of which I am aware that contains all of these ingredients together. Our thief doesn't know what he's doing."

"Or," said Tom, "they are quite cunning and stole ingredients they did not necessarily need in order to disguise their intended use." He shrugged when Snape peered at him suspiciously. "It's what I would have done."

"Neither case is ideal," Snape said as he continued his preparation work. "Students brewing potions without any real knowledge is dangerous, but students intelligent enough to steal ingredients and hide their true purpose is worse." He started adding ingredients to his cauldron in careful, fluid motions. Tom had to respect the man's work; he was more than adept at potion making, himself, but it wasn't his passion. Snape clearly had a talent and love for the art.

"This is an untested combination of ingredients," the potions master said as he crushed mullein with the flat of an ancient-looking iron blade. "It would be advisable to avoid administering the draught before teaching until you see how you are affected by it."

"Wonderful. I believe I would rather suffer than make an idiot of myself."

"That is entirely up to you," Snape replied. He paused in his work on the potion he was brewing to add some ingredients to another cauldron simmering away. Inspecting the ingredients and tools in the vicinity of the cauldron did nothing to help Tom identify the cauldron's contents.

"What else are you brewing, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Wolfsbane potion," Snape replied. "It alleviates the symptoms of the onset of lycanthropy, allowing the victim to retain some sense of his own consciousness and thus pose less of a threat to others while suffering the moon's effects. I have a client elsewhere who pays for my potion making services."

"I missed quite a bit while I was gone, apparently," said Tom. 

Snape made a small noise of thoughtful agreement. He indicated a shelf on the opposite wall, full of what appeared to be bound journals. “Any major advances in the field of potion making would have been documented in the annual journals of the Potions-Makers’ Guild. You may peruse them while you wait, if you wish to rectify the gaps in your knowledge.”

Tom thanked him and, deciding to start where his knowledge ended, retrieved the volume from the year he left Hogwarts. There was a lull in the conversation after that, though Tom did not find it an uncomfortable one. Neither did Snape, it would appear, as he continued to work as if Tom were not there. Tom inquired occasionally about some detail from his reading, and Snape was more than happy—well, not exactly happy, but at least not annoyed—to discuss them as he worked. 

An hour passed more quickly than Tom anticipated, and Snape handed him two neatly-corked bottles with dosage instructions.

“Thank you, Professor,” said Tom, tucking the bottles into his robes. “How might I repay you?”

“It is a new formulation, so I will be interested to hear if it has the intended effect. And,” Snape added, almost as an afterthought, “if you were to identify the person or persons helping themselves to my ingredient stores, I would be most grateful.”

“I shall bear that in mind,” Tom replied from the doorway. “Thank you again.” Snape nodded once, then closed the door with a definitive bang.

* * *

When he arrived a few minutes early for the Duelling Club a couple of weeks later, the students were still milling about while Harry chatted with a small group of students about the upcoming Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. There was a plate of slightly singed, rather unevenly-shaped shortbread fingers on the table next to Harry's club roster.

Harry smiled. “I decided to focus on casting without voicing the spell today. It’s a little advanced for some of them, but if I have you to help I think we can make some progress. It should go much faster with the two of us.” 

"What on earth are these?"

"The Muggle Studies class made them without using any magic," said Harry. "They're not the prettiest, but they smell wonderful. Ogilvie and Winthrop brought them."

Tom picked one up and examined it with a critical eye. He'd certainly eaten worse, he supposed. He inhaled the sandalwood smell and glanced out at the students, to find Winthrop and Ogilvie watching him expectantly.

Wait…sandalwood smell?

He sniffed the shortbread again and it most definitely smelled like sandalwood and leather and autumn leaves. Definitely not how a sweet should smell. He reached over and grabbed Harry's hand before he could take a bite. The flying instructor looked at him quizzically. "That bad?" he asked.

"What do they smell like to you?"

Harry frowned. "Like oranges. And...parchment. Odd."

Tom's gaze returned to Ogilvie and Winthrop, who were now staring very fixedly at their shoes. Tom plucked the shortbread from Harry's fingers despite the other man's protest, then neatly dumped the entire plate in the bin.

"Ogilvie! Winthrop! With me!" he barked. The two students flinched. The Great Hall was silent as they pushed through the throng and followed Tom out the door.

"Yes, sir?" Winthrop squeaked when they caught up to him in the hall. They nearly had to run to keep up with Tom's longer, angry stride, even with the cane. He did not respond, and they fell silent as he led them down the stairs to the dungeons. He knocked sharply on the door to Snape's study.

If Snape was surprised to find Tom there, clearly incensed and accompanied by two guilt-ridden students, he did not let on.

"Good evening, Professor Snape," Tom said. "I believe I have found the culprits behind your missing potions ingredients."

Snape raised an eyebrow at Tom, and then brought his penetrating gaze around to Winthrop and Ogilvie. "And what, praytell, did these enterprising young potions-makers do with the supplies they stole from my cupboard?"

Ogilvie swallowed nervously. She glanced at Tom before replying, "We—we brewed amortentia, sir."

"I see. Were you successful?"

"They were successful in brewing it," said Tom, "though not in administering it."

"Are you certain?"

"Quite," said Tom coldly.

Snape narrowed his eyes at the two students. "Theft of my supplies is not something I take lightly, especially when they are used to brew a substance that is banned at Hogwarts. Mr. Winthrop, Miss Ogilvie, one hundred points from Gryffindor. You will serve detention with me each and every Saturday morning for no less than a month." Upon seeing their crestfallen faces, he sneered, "Consider yourselves lucky. Your punishment would be even more severe had someone fallen victim to your foolish prank."

"Yes, sir," said Winthrop.

"Sorry, sir," said Ogilvie.

Snape nodded curtly to Tom and slammed the door. Tom stood there for a moment, still furious with the two students who inched a little further away when they realized that their punishment was not entirely over.

"What were you thinking?" he asked them after a moment. "Was this some sort of a game? A dare?"

"We were only—"

"You were not 'only' anything," Tom snapped. "Taking away someone’s ability to make decisions for themselves is unacceptable."

"Yes, sir," said Winthrop quietly.

"It wasn’t a dare," Ogilvie insisted. "We were trying to help. It's not as if it the two of you don’t—"

"Nothing good can come of a relationship built on a potion that manipulates someone's thoughts or emotions!" Tom thundered. Ogilvie had tears threatening to spill out of her eyes, and Winthrop didn't look too far behind her. Tom took a breath and checked his temper once again. "You have no idea of the consequences of such actions, no matter how helpful your intentions. You are two intelligent, talented young students. I expect you to think."

"Yes, sir," they said.

"You will return to Gryffindor Tower for the remainder of the night. And I expect you to apologize to Professor Potter at your earliest opportunity. Do I make myself clear?"

They nodded, and he released them from their torture. They scurried off in the direction of Gryffindor Tower, and Tom sighed.

He returned to the Duelling Club, limping a bit from taking the stairs at such a pace. Harry was in the midst of supervising the students as they practiced jinxing one another without voicing the spell. Tom sat down heavily. Harry finished giving whispered advice to one pair of students who looked fairly purple with the effort of thinking a spell rather than speaking it.

"Well?" He said as he sat down beside Tom.

"They won’t be brewing any illicit potions again anytime soon."

Harry regarded him thoughtfully. "I don't believe I've ever seen you that angry."

Tom scowled. "I do not take kindly to meddling. Ask Albus." 

Harry leaned closer so their conversation couldn’t be heard by the students a few yards away. “Are you all right? Stupid shenanigans don’t usually get to you like this,” he said, fingers just touching Tom’s arm.

Ogilvie’s words in defense of their reckless actions were still at the fore of Tom’s thoughts. 

_It’s not as if the two of you don’t--_

Don’t what? He didn’t like the idea of anyone making assumptions about his personal life, especially students. And especially not about Harry. It was no one’s damn business but his own. He shrugged away from Harry’s fingertips, not meeting his eyes. Ignoring Harry’s words, he nodded to the students and said, "They appear to be doing well. I see at least three victims of Jelly-Legs."

“Tom--”

“ _Harry_.” Tom met his gaze squarely, daring him to keep pushing. Harry didn’t back down, but Tom watched his expression go from concern to frustration when he figured out what Tom was doing. Tom merely raised his eyebrows.

“Fine, be like that,” Harry said. “But while you’re sulking, would you mind helping the students who are struggling? They don't have the necessary focus. And power of mind and will is kind of your thing. I was always bollocks at anything to do with it."

Tom refused to wince at Harry’s tone. Perhaps he’d let his pride get the best of him and pushed too far. "You do just fine when you're duelling," he pointed out, hoping the compliment would smooth things over.

"Yeah, well, that's easy. There's a clear goal of not being turned into a blast-ended skrewt.” Harry stood and added, “And Tom? It is possible to ask for some space without being a git.” 

Tom sighed. He supposed he deserved that. He would address it with Harry later, when he’d had a chance to think and take some of the potion Severus had brewed for him. He grabbed his blasted cane and headed for the nearest group of students who were struggling with casting their spells.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting a bit early because my week is about to get rather busy, and I wouldn't want to keep everyone (or Tom and Harry) waiting.

Harry expected Tom to skip breakfast the following morning, as he was wont to do when he was in what Minerva had taken to calling, “a Mood.” He was surprised, therefore, when Tom appeared and sat next to him as had become his habit. Harry gave him a quick once over to assess whether he had slept at all, judged him to be at least functional for the day, and acknowledged his presence with a nod before returning to his conversation with Pomona about the International Quidditch Association’s policy on performance-enhancing herbs. Tom drank his tea in moody silence.

They were on their way out of the Great Hall when Winthrop and Ogilvie cornered them. They looked thoroughly chastened after whatever Tom said to them the night before.

"Professor Potter, sir?" said Winthrop. "D'you have a minute?"

Harry glanced at Tom and raised an inquisitive eyebrow before turning back to the students. "Of course. What can I do for you?"

"We wanted to say we're sorry, sir," Ogilvie said. "We didn’t think it would hurt anything for us to put the love potion in the sweets. We were wrong."

Oh.

Tom had neglected to mention exactly what kind of potion Ogilvie and Winthrop brewed. Harry managed to keep a straight face while his brain struggled to catch up, and hoped the flush he felt creeping up his cheeks wasn’t as obvious as he thought it might be. 

"We didn't mean any harm. Honest, we didn't," Winthrop added. "We promise we won't do anything like that again. And we won't steal anything from Professor Snape's supplies, either."

"I see. Well, apology accepted," said Harry. "I've certainly been known to play an occasional prank, but you must be careful. Just because no one's had to be carted off to the hospital wing doesn't mean there's no harm done."

They exchanged a quick glance when he called their actions a prank, but didn’t argue. "Yes, Professor," they chimed in unison.

"All right. Off with you." Harry watched them ascend the stairs, trying to decide if he should point out Tom’s omission. He had been furious with the students, but Harry had no clue if it were due to being slipped a potion unawares--a reasonable response, by all accounts--or because he was appalled by the idea of being involved with Harry. The latter alternative sat heavy in his stomach, especially after their disagreement. Maybe it was cowardly of him, but he just wasn’t ready to have that discussion yet. So instead, he gave Tom a nod and headed off in a direction that was unquestionably not the one Tom would be taking.

He wasn’t scheduled to teach for another hour or so, but Harry made his way to the Quidditch pitch across the grassy field still covered in low-lying mist. Some time in the air was just what he needed. He retrieved his broom from the locked cupboard and kicked off, going through some more acrobatic maneuvers for a few minutes before settling into flying laps at a lower altitude, not far above the stands. Harry had always been able to think more clearly in the air, but he wasn’t sure that even flying would help him figure out the puzzle that was Tom Riddle.

He was sure Ogilvie and Winthrop didn’t have any malicious intent when they attempted to slip them the love potion. It was far more likely that they were simply trying to be helpful, which stung his pride a bit. Not that he was actively pursuing Tom, exactly, but he liked to think he was capable of such a thing without the help of a couple of kids and some stolen potion ingredients.

Harry would readily admit he’d been taken with Tom from the moment he met the man in the headmaster’s office, and all evidence thus far indicated that Tom was interested in him, as well. Unless he wasn’t. He might have been watching Harry because he just found him interesting. Finding someone interesting wasn’t the same thing as being _interested_ in them. God, he sounded like the Gryffindor girls tittering about boys in the hall.

It wasn’t entirely Harry’s fault. Tom was infuriatingly difficult to read more times than not, and so private that trying to learn something about him was like trying to decipher messages in code, in a locked box, buried somewhere on an island without a map to follow. The few glimpses Harry had of his real thoughts and feelings had been immediately followed by Tom shutting down even more tightly. The night he’d come to him about the boggart had been the lone exception thus far, and Harry had thought they’d made some progress past Tom’s very fortified walls, but apparently not.

He settled back on the ground when he saw the group of First Years approaching from the courtyard. Maybe where Tom was concerned he needed to take a page from the care and feeding of grumpy hippogriffs and just leave him the hell alone until he figured out what he wanted.

Tom would not have appreciated the comparison, Harry was sure. That made it all the more apt.

* * *

The rest of the week followed the same pattern: Tom would encounter Harry as he usually did throughout the day, and Harry would smile and chat for a moment about whatever mundane things they usually chatted about before heading off to his own classes. To the casual observer, it would appear that nothing had changed between them.

It was driving Tom mad.

Granted, he was the one who snapped at Harry like a cornered animal. Tom had been confused and distracted and defensive, and Harry’s only offense had been to push him a little out of concern. He couldn’t be certain if Harry had actively been avoiding Tom since then, but he’d been...distant. Professional. Like a colleague, rather than a friend. Being around Harry like this made his skin crawl. He hated it, and he hated that it bothered him as much as it did.

On Tuesday, he was so preoccupied with the situation that didn’t eat anything all day and was forced to wander down to the kitchens late that evening. Having obtained his usual cheese and pickle sandwich (one of his favorites when he was at Hogwarts as a student and of which he was still secretly fond, especially on his worse days), he made his way back up to the first floor, intending to bury himself in work for the rest of the night.

Tom heard the yelling before he rounded the corner and was greeted by the sight of Alfie Winthrop pummeling the living daylights out of a Ravenclaw boy at least twice his size.

“Enough!” he called, hurrying to separate them even as Winthrop continued to swing at the other boy, whom Tom could now identify as David Montesquieu. “Both of you in my office, now!”

The two boys followed him silently, save for a few sniffles from Montesquieu, whose nose Winthrop appeared to have broken. They sat down heavily across from Tom and endured his assessment without comment. “What in Merlin’s name has gotten into the two of you?” he asked at last. 

Montesquieu sniffed again, and glared fixedly at the floor. Winthrop, in turn, glared at Montesquieu. He had the makings of an impressive black eye. Neither seemed inclined to answer Tom’s question, so he tried again.

“Why were you fighting?”

Finally, Montesquieu replied, “No reason,” he said, voice muffled because of his rapidly swelling nose.

“No reason,” Tom repeated slowly. “You just randomly decided to beat one another bloody in the corridor?”

“Yes, sir,” said Winthrop quietly.

Tom sighed. “Not telling me what you were fighting about isn’t going to keep you out of detention,” he said. “One week, detention with me every evening. You’ll be giving Mr. Filch a hand.” Tom felt a little guilty, despite having caught both boys in the middle of their brawl. Montesquieu was an ass, but Tom couldn’t simply let Winthrop off without punishment because he didn’t like the other boy. “Now off with you to see Madame Pomfrey.”

Montesquieu slid his chair back with a loud screech before bolting out the door. Winthrop stayed in his chair, examining his fingers and noting the bruises from punching the other boy. 

Tom leaned against the desk and watched him for a moment. Winthrop eventually glanced up and around, eyes falling on the paper-wrapped sandwich Tom had tossed onto the desk. “Is that cheese and pickle, sir?”

Tom unwrapped the sandwich and gave half to the boy. “At this rate, Mr. Winthrop, you’re going to be in detention until Christmas. Why were you fighting?” Tom asked again. To his complete surprise, the boy launched himself in his direction and hugged him.

“Because...because he said you’d done some really awful things,” Winthrop said from somewhere in the folds of Tom’s robe, where he’d buried his face. “And that you were going to hurt Professor Potter."

"I see." Tom could think of no other response. He realized he should probably do something, so he carefully patted the boy’s shoulder. Winthrop emerged, eyes wet, but a fierce look on his round face.

"I told him you would never, ever do that. It didn’t matter if his mum heard it from Vera Summerby’s barmy aunt. And then he called me stupid, so I hit him."

Tom sighed and carefully extricated himself from Winthrop’s grip and urged him back into the chair. "While part of me is disappointed that you didn’t use this opportunity to practice some of the skills you’ve learned in Duelling Club, I don't need students going around and defending my honor."

"But what if you do? Half the class is terrified of you. And besides, if Professor Potter thinks you're all right, then you must be. And it's obvious how you two feel about each other! I mean, it isn’t just me and Theresa who think so, there’s a whole group of us rooting for you, so I don't know what Montesquieu was talking about. He's the stupid one."

The thought of having a student fan club, especially one keeping track of his personal life with Harry, was deeply off-putting. "I thought I made it clear to you and Miss Ogilvie that you were not to meddle in the affairs of others,” Tom growled. “That being said, I appreciate your understanding that I'm not some bogeyman here to kill you all in your sleep."

"Only if we don't punctuate properly," Winthrop said with a snort. He had nearly finished the sandwich, unfazed by Tom’s peevish tone.

"Only when you do not live up to the potential that I know you have," Tom corrected firmly.

"But you know we want you both to be happy, right?"

"Mr. Winthrop. It's not any of your—"

"Because we do. I read the articles about all the things you did. They didn't say who it was you were trying to save, but whoever it was is gone, sir. And Professor Potter is here now, and he likes you, Professor. In fact, a lot of us do. So stop fighting it and just be happy."

It was the most confident and self-assured Tom had ever seen Alfie Winthrop. He regarded the boy for a long moment, trying to muster up the indignation he should probably have felt at being lectured by a Fourth Year. Finally he sighed and said, "I wish you argued your points this well in your essays."

"I'm sorry, sir."

"I know." He ran a frustrated hand through his hair before waving Winthrop away. "Get to the hospital wing and have Madame Pomfrey look at that eye. I needn’t remind you that this conversation stays between the two of us."

"Confidential. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"I still have to deduct points from Hufflepuff, you know."

"I know, sir," said Winthrop with a cheeky grin. "I think it was worth it. And I hit Montesquieu because I know he’s faster than I am with a wand, and I knew I could catch him by surprise if I decked him. I’ve survived three older brothers.”

"They’ve prepared you well,” said Tom wryly. “Off with you." When he was gone, Tom sat heavily in his desk chair, hands shaking. He wanted to lock himself away in his quarters and hibernate for as long as possible. Part of him knew Winthrop was right, that if he gave Harry the slightest bit of encouragement, their friendship might evolve into something more. Harry was no longer an enemy or a dream, a quest or an experiment to observe. He was real, and Tom could admit to himself that he wanted him even more because of it.

But what would Harry want with him? He barely tolerated people at his best, and at his worst he was cold and biting and, he admitted, dangerous. Tom knew he was still capable of all the things he had avoided doing in this life, to which he had subjected the world in another lifetime. Not to mention the fact that his time in the Underworld had rendered him a complete and total mess, as evidenced by his behavior earlier that week.

There was a gentle knock at the door, and Tom jumped. Minerva was standing there, a strange look on her face. Tom cleared his throat, trying to figure how long he had been mired in his own thoughts. "Yes, Minerva?"

She crossed to his desk and sat down in the chair opposite, still watching him over the top of her spectacles with that inscrutable look of hers. Tom tried not to squirm.

"I passed Alfie Winthrop in the hall," she said. "He had quite the black eye."

"I didn't give it to him, if that's what you're asking," said Tom.

"Don't be silly. Of course you didn't."

"He and David Montesquieu got into it over something pointless," Tom said with a casual wave of one hand. "I wouldn't worry about it happening again."

"Because you're going to gather your courage and speak to Harry?" Tom blanched. Minerva gave a pitying half-smile. "I overheard what Winthrop said. I was standing in the hall. I’m afraid I must agree with what the boy said. It's been frustrating to watch the two of you dance around one another for this long."

"Ah," said Tom, his voice sounding choked over the roaring in his own ears.

"Tom," said Minerva, and she reached across the desk and grasped one of his hands in one of her slender, papery-cool ones.

"It won't work," he said quietly. 

"Whyever not?" 

"He’s rather displeased with me at the moment, for a start,” Tom said.

"So apologize," said Minerva. "And stop carrying around your past like discussing it is going to open up some rift in the fabric of time and ruin us all. Share it with him."

"I can't. I don't know how,” Tom muttered crossly. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

"Oh, my dear," she said with a smile and a final squeeze of his hand, "if the Tom Riddle who walked these halls as a student could see you now. He wouldn't recognize himself. You have changed so much, and I'm sorry I doubted you. I would offer to help, but I don't think you need it. It won't take much. Just remember to breathe."

"That isn't helpful," Tom called after her as she reached the door.

“Perhaps not,” she replied. “But you’d better figure something out before you have a chance to talk yourself out of it.” And she was gone.

“Damn it,” said Tom, dropping his head into his hands.

He spent most of Wednesday avoiding Harry as much as Harry avoided him.

Thursday finally arrived and it was time for the Duelling Club to meet once again. By that point Tom was strung so tight he felt he might snap. It took a concerted effort to exhibit patience with the students, who undoubtedly sensed the tension and scattered rather quickly after the meeting was over a few minutes ahead of schedule. Harry was packing up his things when Tom approached him.

“Have you been avoiding me?”

Harry stopped what he was doing and met his gaze squarely. “I was under the impression that you wanted to be left alone.”

“You know that isn’t true.”

“Do I?”

“Stop it,” Tom growled. “I’m sorry. I was...preoccupied. I shouldn’t have treated you that way.”

Harry regarded him for a moment, arms crossed over his chest. “Why didn’t you mention what kind of potion Ogilvie and Winthrop tried to feed us?”

Tom blanched. His plans for how the conversation was going to go went out the window. “I--”

“Because it didn’t bother me nearly as much as it did you. Which makes me wonder,” Harry said with a self-deprecating chuckle, eyes looking toward the ceiling for a moment as if he needed to find the words there, “was it the potion you found so abhorrent, or me?”

It had never occurred to Tom that Harry might interpret his reaction in that way. Horrified, Tom took a step toward him, fingers itching to grasp him by the shoulders but aborting the gesture. His height forced Harry to look up at him over the top of his glasses when he refused to give any ground. “Of course it wasn’t you,” he said vehemently. “I know firsthand what an unmitigated disaster a relationship based on a potion--based on a _lie_ \--can be. My mother tricked my father into marrying her that way.”

“Weren’t you raised in an orphanage?” Harry asked, realization dawning in his voice.

“Case in point,” Tom said darkly. He took a breath, consciously pushing the thoughts of his family and upbringing aside before giving into the urge to place his hands on Harry’s shoulders to be certain he was heard and understood. “It wasn’t you,” he repeated quietly.

Harry examined him for a long moment, and Tom endured it. Evidently he found what he was looking for, because he nodded as if to himself and said, “Right, then,” before leaning in and kissing him. It was surprisingly gentle and chaste and perfect.

Tom felt horribly guilty.

He ducked away and caught Harry’s wrist before his hand could reach his face. Harry froze, green eyes searching his face. “You need to understand something, Harry,” said Tom, not letting go of his wrist. “Until recently, I kept people around simply because they had something I wanted. When they outgrew their usefulness, well...” He paused, trying to gauge the effect of his words on Harry, but gave up when Harry seemed neither surprised nor appalled. “You’re different. You matter."

"But that’s a good thing,” said Harry slowly.

“I have done things that should horrify you. I have used people, manipulated them for my own ends. I have killed people, Harry, because I felt like it.”

“Are you trying to scare me off? Because it isn’t working,” Harry replied. “I know you’ve done things you’re not proud of--”

“But I am proud of them,” Tom cut him off. “And I would do it all again, given then opportunity. I can’t claim I’m sorry for any of it, because if I hadn’t done all those things, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Then we’re in agreement. We’re both glad you’re here, no matter the circumstances that brought you here. Maybe it’s selfish of me, but I don’t care.” Again, Harry was so earnest and careful that Tom really was out of his depth. 

"I don’t understand you," Tom said quietly. He recalled saying the same thing to the other Harry in the hospital wing. It was still true.

Harry’s eyes dragged down to where Tom still held his wrist, thumb pressing the pulse point, then back up. "Is it really that difficult to decipher what I want?" 

"I am not a good person, Harry. That is not an exaggeration."

"You keep saying that," said Harry. "But I still don't believe it."

"You should," he said. He should drop his hand and step away, he thought, but he didn't. Instead, he added in a voice that sounded embarrassingly small to his own ears, "What if you get to know me, and you don't like what you find? You deserve better."

"I don't want better, I want _you_ , you brilliant idiot," Harry said fiercely, and suddenly Tom was done fighting it. He tugged Harry closer by the wrist and kissed him. Harry muttered something that sounded like, “Finally,” and Tom chuckled against his mouth.

Tom was far from inexperienced when it came to things like this. Touch was a tool to manipulate others, a list of steps to achieve a certain end result much like following instructions in the potions textbook. It was something he never felt the need to initiate for his own benefit, and it certainly wasn’t something he associated with any feeling besides mild disgust for the poor fools who were deluded enough to think they were anything but temporarily useful to him.

Touching Harry, though, was a different matter entirely. Harry’s tongue slid against his encouragingly and Tom realized Harry had perched on the table so they were at a more equal height, Tom caught between his knees. Harry’s hands fisted in the back of Tom’s shirt beneath his robes, and Tom shivered. 

There came an astonished squeak from the doorway and Tom looked up over Harry’s shoulder to find a girl—of course it had to be Vera Summerby, of bloody course—standing there, eyes wide and hands belatedly covering her mouth. Tom backed away from Harry, trying his best to school his features. Harry hopped down from the table and ran a hand through his perpetually unkempt hair.

Vera finally found her voice. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—“ she stammered, then bolted away.

“I’ve got this,” Harry said. He threw Tom a searching glance. “Are you…are we…?”

Tom nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. “You go. She’d only run faster from me.” Harry gave him a wry smile before leaning in for one last, quick kiss. It wasn’t more than a brush of his lips on Tom’s, but it spoke volumes. Tom watched him take off after Vera, feeling the weight of his absence, but at ease with it.

He slept through the night for the first time in weeks.

At breakfast the following morning, Tom blew on his tea to cool it and inquired, “How did your talk with that student go?” It was a simple enough question that could have referred to any number of interactions they had with students, but Tom was gratified to see just the faintest hint of color appear on Harry’s cheeks. 

“Well enough,” he replied. “She said she had been trying to work up the courage to attend the Duelling Club meetings since the beginning of the school year. Something made her decide to come in late last night just to watch. She wasn’t aware that we had ended the meeting early.”

“Ah.”

“I don’t think it will be a problem. I told her she’s welcome to attend the next meeting, if she likes. We certainly won’t hold anything against her.”

Later that afternoon, Tom was attempting to get some work done between classes. The fact that he was spending more time staring at Harry’s trading card was neither here nor there. A knock at the door startled him from his reverie.

"Professor?" Vera Summerby hovered anxiously in the doorway. 

Tom stood. "What can I do for you, Miss Summerby?"

"I was…I spoke with Professor Potter about joining Duelling Club again. I know it's already started for the year, so I'm behind. I was hoping you might have some books or something that might help me catch up."

"I'm happy to help," Tom replied evenly. After his conversation with Dumbledore and Draco Malfoy, he knew he had to tread carefully with this girl. Especially after she caught him with Harry. He watched the girl nervously twist a stand of her own curly hair, trying to appear brave in the lion's den.

"My aunt didn't want me to participate this year," she blurted, blushing slightly and looking at the floor. "She's very protective."

Especially when it came to him, Tom knew. "Miss Summerby, are you joining the club against your aunt's wishes?" The girl didn't answer, but she didn't need to. Tom frowned. "Miss Summerby, you shouldn't—"

"I was really looking forward to it."

She looked so determined that Tom couldn't help but respect her. He knew it took no small amount of courage for her to come speak with him, when he knew she was practically terrified of him. 

"I'm afraid I cannot allow you to participate in something of which your aunt does not approve. However," he said, watching her face fall, "I shall loan you whatever materials you wish to use for your independent study, and I shall step away from the club. That way you have nothing to worry about with your aunt."

"You would do that?" The girl was clearly shocked and pleased, and Tom counted it a victory.

"Professor Potter will understand. You need the Duelling Club more than I," he said gently. "Whose class do you have next? I can write you an excuse for your tardiness."

"I'm free, actually," she replied.

"Very well. I have First Years to teach, so have a look at the books. If you wish to borrow anything, you may take it as long as you write it down and leave the list on my desk. And don't disturb the class as you leave," he admonished. She nodded eagerly.

"Thank you, Professor," she said as he stepped to the door.

"You are most welcome, Miss Summerby."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A field trip and a warning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is almost entirely from Tom's POV, for reasons that should become apparent. The next one will be mostly Harry's, to make up for it.

The news that Tom would no longer be working with the Duelling Club spread rapidly through the school, though the reason seemed to escape the students entirely. Harry heard several whispered explanations of varying degrees of accuracy. One or two students went to Tom for an explanation—Ogilvie and Winthrop, of course, were particularly adamant—but Tom simply told them that he had other duties and would be glad to give them additional tutelage if they requested it. The previous meeting had been his last.

Harry took it well, especially knowing Tom's reason for avoiding the activity. "I won't say I'm not disappointed, but that's a noble thing you've done," he said quietly to Tom as they discussed it at dinner. Tom’s presence at the evening meal was unusual, and Harry surreptitiously squeezed his hand under the table when the din erupted in volume a bit and made Tom jump. 

Tom flushed a bit, which Harry found immensely gratifying to watch. "I wouldn't call it noble," he said. "It's no great sacrifice on my part."

"Isn't it?" Harry asked innocently. "You're missing out on quality time with me." He grinned when Tom scowled as his blush deepened.

"I have work to do," he muttered as he rose from the table.

“I’m chaperoning the Hogsmeade trip this weekend. Would you like to come along? Some friends of mine asked if we could get together with them while we’re there this weekend, and it’s my last opportunity to go before matches start. Hermione might be able to help with your hip.”

“Thank you, but no,” said Tom. “I’ve had enough poking and prodding. It is what it is. I simply have to learn to live with it.”

“But what if you don’t have to?” Harry asked. “Wouldn't it be nice to be able to go haring off after students without a second thought?"

Tom glared at him. "I'm fine, Harry."

Undeterred, Harry pushed a bit more. "Hermione’s amazing with research. If she knows what to look for, you couldn’t have a better person looking into it. If there is something to be done that can help you, she will find it.”

Tom sighed. "It won't do any good."

“Maybe not," Harry conceded, "but it can't hurt to try. Just speak with her. If you don’t want her to pursue it, she won’t.” He noted Tom’s continuing scowl and added with a smile, “If you try to back out of going, I will hold all your essays hostage.”

“You’d have to get your hands on them, first,” Tom replied with a smirk, and Harry knew he was thinking of all the wards and protections he had cast on the contents of his office.

Harry’s grin turned shrewd. “I love a challenge.”

* * *

The day of the Hogsmeade trip was blustery, but the sky was an impossible blue. Though it was a fairly small group making the trek, students and Harry alike were in good spirits. Some friends of his—the owners of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, Tom learned—had bought the joke shop in town and were holding a grand reopening that weekend. Harry was eager to swing by and give them his regards. Tom agreed to accompany him mostly because Harry had, through means still unbeknownst to Tom, managed to sneak past his wards and steal the stack of essays he needed to mark and refused to return them until they returned from the village. The depths of Harry's deviousness were beginning to make themselves known and Tom was, frankly, afraid of what Harry might do if he didn't go. He was friends with the proprietors of a chain of joke shops, after all.

They watched the students scatter to the four corners of the earth upon arrival in the village. "Come on, then," said Harry, pulling him in the direction of the joke shop. Upon seeing Tom's grimace, he added, "I promise we won't be long. Then we can hide out in the Hog's Head until it's time to escort these delinquents back to school."

"Very well."

Against his better judgment, Tom allowed Harry to tug him into the ungodly bright shop. The shelves were lined with items that any teacher dreaded, but Tom had to admit the magic involved in some of the wares was impressive enough. The Headless Hats, for instance, were quite effective at hiding the faces of the students who realized two professors were in their midst as they attempted to purchase items that the headmaster had strictly forbidden at the beginning of the term. Harry seemed to get quite a kick out of threading through the aisles in the most illogical pattern, forcing the students to scurry in other directions and hide their Skiving Snackboxes.

"Oy, stop scaring away our customers!" 

Harry was suddenly beset by a matched set of gangly gingers dressed like some sort of executive jesters. The two men caught Harry in the middle of a hug that seemed more like an ambush. Harry didn't seem to mind too much, though the ginger with an "F" embroidered onto the lapel of his purple tailcoat was scrubbing Harry's head with his knuckles.

"Ow! We're doing no such thing. Fred, gerroff!"

"Big famous Quidditch player, why don't you make me?"

"Cut it out, Fred, or I'll pay Severus to stand in front of your store. That'll really scare away all your customers."

The ginger known as Fred released Harry and smoothed his hair down as best as he could—it was a moot point, anyway, thought Tom—and shook his head. "George, what on earth will we tell our backer when he finds out we've been threatened by some washed-up Quidditch player?"

"Let's find out," said George. Turning to Harry and assuming a very official voice, he said, "Mr. Potter, I'm afraid our store's been threatened by some washed-up Quidditch player. Think you can take care of it?"

"I'll see what I can do," said Harry with a wink. He pulled Tom over by the elbow. "Tom, meet Fred and George Weasley, proprietors. This is Tom Riddle. He teaches Defense."

Tom shook hands with Fred and George, albeit warily. "So Harry's invested in your business, then?"

"He's funded the lot," said George.

"Said he'd spent enough of his Quidditch salary on himself and wanted to contribute to the delinquency of future generations," Fred added. "Bless him."

"I knew Fred and George in school," Harry said. "Their brother Ron was in my year. Speaking of Ron, have you seen him or Hermione yet?"

"They've been and gone. Said they were going on to the Hog's Head." George gave Harry the first serious look Tom had witnessed. "Hope you're bringing your own glasses, mate."

Harry laughed. "They're not that bad."

"Speak for yourself," said Fred. He poked a finger at Tom. "You're probably immune to the cat hair by now, Harry, but what about him?"

"Looks like he could scare the creatures away with a glare, that one. He's one of those teachers, Fred." George clicked his tongue in sympathy for the students. Tom was caught somewhere between indignation and confusion. The Hog's Head certainly must have changed since his days of visiting Hogsmeade as a student, if there were felines involved. Harry interrupted his thoughts and grabbed his arm, steering him out of the store.

"Anyway, just wanted to drop by and wish you luck," he called to the twins. "Don't sell the students anything that will get them expelled, please."

"Cross our hearts," said George.

"And our fingers," said Fred.

Tom was still rather baffled by the whole encounter as they returned to the crisp air of the street. "Sorry about that," said Harry. "Fred and George can be a little overwhelming sometimes. You appeared to be doing all right, though. No panic attacks?” he asked quietly.

Tom shook his head. “No panic attacks,” he replied. Harry surreptitiously squeezed his hand as they they turned off of High Street and made their way to the Hog's Head, passing groups of students gorging themselves on sweets from Honeyduke's. When they reached the tavern, Tom noted that though the weathered wooden sign that hung over the door still squeaked with even the slightest breeze, the windows were clean enough to see through and there seemed to be a relatively large number of patrons. Stepping inside, they paused for Harry to search out his friends. Tom felt something brush against his leg and found a rather large tabby cat staring up at him with unnerving yellow eyes.

"Harry! Over here!" A woman with curly hair waved at them from a table in the far corner of the room. Stepping over the cat, Tom followed Harry over to her and her ginger companion who was clearly related to the twins. He stood to one side as there were hugs and slaps on the back. The cat reappeared and was now rubbing languorous figure eights around Tom's ankles. This made it rather difficult to step forward when Harry made the introductions. Finally, everyone was seated, and the cat leaped into Tom's lap and peered at the others as if he expected to be included in the conversation.

"You've made a friend, Tom," said Harry, mischief in his eyes. Tom held his hands away from the cat as if the creature might burn him. He scowled at Harry, who laughed when the cat mirrored Tom's expression.

From behind the bar, a grumpy-looking man bellowed, "Arabella, keep your blasted cats off the patrons!" An elderly woman shuffled over from the bar, in tartan robes that made Minerva's taste in clothing appear tame. "Tibbles, you know better than that," she scolded. "I'm sorry," she said to Tom, "Tibbles doesn't usually take to patrons like this. You can just shove him off, if you like."

Tibbles looked from the woman to Tom, and he swore the expression on the cat's face dared him to attempt no such thing. Tom carefully stroked the cat's spine, feeling an absurd amount of relief when the animal did not attempt to maim him. "No, it's fine," he said to the woman.

"Oh. All right, then," she said with a vague smile. She proceeded to take their drink orders before shuffling back to the bar.

"How are things at school?" Hermione asked once they had been left alone. Harry shrugged.

"The same as ever," he said. "I’d ask how things are at the Ministry, but I know if you told me, you’d have to kill me.”

Hermione threw a napkin at him. “I wish you two would stop making that joke,” she said. “Just because I’m an Unspeakable now doesn’t mean I can’t tell you about my day. I just can’t talk about what I’m working on.”

“Though honestly she could lay out every detail of what she’s doing in there and we wouldn’t understand a lick of it,” Ron chimed in. “It’s nice, actually. Plausible deniability for when she makes the entire world explode.”

Tom just continued to pet the cat that had taken up residence in his lap. Hermione must have noticed his expression, because she leaned over and explained, “The ministry hired me on because they’re trying to introduce more scientific study as Muggles know it, rather than simply relying on traditional magical methods of research.”

“ _Doctor_ Granger-Weasley here is a physicist,” said Harry, emphasizing her title in a way that implied Hermione had to remind people of it regularly.

“Which basically makes her the Muggle equivalent of an Unspeakable, as well,” Ron added, beaming with pride. “That’s our ‘Mione, doubly terrifying.”

“I see,” said Tom. The elderly woman brought their tray of drinks to their table. In his lap, the cat began to purr at a distracting volume.

“Actually, Tom, we’ve already met. Though I wouldn’t expect you to remember it,” Hermione said after a sip of her butterbeer. 

Tom’s brow furrowed momentarily, until he realized the only time he would have met Unspeakables in this time would have been when the Veil spat him out in the Department of Mysteries. “Ah. You were there when I arrived, then?”

Hermione nodded. “I was. It was fascinating. We would love to have a chance to speak with you about your experience. Not a press interview, obviously. Those are rubbish,” she explained quickly upon seeing Tom’s scowl at the thought of another interview. “An official debrief, if you will. We’re interested in scientific and magical observations. Research, not rumors.”

Tom considered it. If Hermione were present when he came through the Veil, that meant she worked in the section of the Department of Mysteries that researched Death. Harry might be correct in his suggestion that Hermione could help look into his damned hip. The thought was tempting, especially knowing that Hermione was professionally bound to keep secret anything they discussed.

“I would be happy to,” he replied with a smile. Harry raised an eyebrow, obviously suspicious that Tom would agree to such a meeting after being so thoroughly secretive about his experiences. “For research,” Tom added. Harry narrowed his eyes a bit, but said nothing as Hermione, thrilled, pulled out her planner to schedule the meeting.

The rest of the conversation was mundane enough. Ron and Harry talked Quidditch, and Tom and Hermione discussed some magical advances that had taken place during his absence. They were debating Gamp’s Law and the Law of Conservation of Mass at one point when Tom grudgingly admitted he had little to no familiarity with Muggle science theories or practices. Hermione gasped in delight and placed a hand on Tom’s arm that wasn’t occupied with petting the cat. “Oh, Tom, I have _books_ ,” she said.

Harry caught Tom’s eye and beamed at him in a way that made him momentarily falter in his feline ministrations. The cat nipped at his hand and Harry chuckled.

Eventually, the gathering broke up when Harry and Tom had to escort the students back to Hogwarts. Hermione made certain Tom had one of her cards before departing, and Ron shook his hand and thanked him for the conversation. Tom looked at him quizzically, and he explained, “I always try to keep up with her, but most of it’s beyond me. I’m glad there’s someone around now who can discuss Grump’s Law or whatever--”

“ _Gamp’s_ Law, Ronald. Honestly,” Hermione corrected him without rancor.

“--Gamp’s Law, then. In any case, thanks, mate.”

They brought up the rear as the group returned to school, walking close enough that their shoulders bumped occasionally. Tom suspected Harry was doing it on purpose, but he didn’t really mind. He was thinking about the way that Harry’s friends treated him as something of a fixture in Harry’s life, even after just having met him. It made him feel a bit self-conscious, but not in an entirely negative way. As they drew closer to the school, the wind picked up and they drew their cloaks tighter. Clouds were rolling in and the students scurried ahead of them, hoping to beat the rain.

"Thank you for coming along," said Harry. "I know you couldn't have been mad about being subjected to my friends. Though I knew you and Hermione would hit it off."

"You stole my essays. I didn't have a choice," Tom replied. When Harry gave him a look, he shrugged. "It was...nice. The twins were sobering, though. I cannot imagine what it was like to try to teach them. It's a wonder Minerva didn't murder them."

Harry laughed. "Who's to say she didn't try?" They had reached the castle by that point, and the students wandering in the direction of the Great Hall for dinner. "I'm not hungry in the least," he said. "Want to come up? You can mark your essays while I work out a plan for the relays my First Years are flying tomorrow. In the rain, apparently," he added with a grimace, noting a brief flash of lightning through the stained glass.

"I don't think I would get much work done," Tom replied. Harry leveled him with a calculating look before grabbing his arm and pulling him slightly further down the corridor, out of the way of foot traffic and students' ears.

"Did you enjoy yourself today?"

Acutely aware of how close they stood in the dim alcove, Tom was momentarily taken aback. "Actually, I did."

"Good. So did I. And not just because I got to see Ron and Hermione," he pointed out. He closed the distance between them and kissed him before Tom could reply. Not that Tom could form a coherent sentence at the moment, anyway; not when Harry was pressed against him from head to toe and kissing him within an inch of his life. And it was glorious.

"We should go somewhere besides the hallway," Harry murmured against his mouth.

Tom hummed in agreement, but it was then that he heard from behind the walls a voice he hadn't heard in years. "…rip…tear…kill!"

He pulled back from Harry and froze, listening intently. 

"That's not possible," Tom said, breathless.

"What?" Harry looked at him in dazed surprise. Seeing him like that made Tom want to drag him upstairs right that very moment, but he held up a hand instead. "What is it?"

"Quiet," Tom shushed him, straining to hear.

"…soo hungry…for so long…"

"Tom, what on earth—"

"…kill…time to kill…"

Tom took off running up the marble steps to the first floor, cane be damned, following the sound of the basilisk as best he could. Harry was right behind him, their footsteps a sharp staccato in the empty hall. They paused, Tom listening hard over their ragged breaths, Harry watching him with a frown.

"What was that? I don't hear anything," he said.

"Shh!"

"…I smell blood…I SMELL BLOOD!"

Heart in his throat, Tom ran in the direction of the voice. He rounded a corner, stopping short, and might have slipped on the wet stones if Harry had not been right behind him to steady him.

"Oh, no."

On the wall in front of them were words a foot tall, shining sticky in the dim torchlight.

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.

"That's not possible," Tom repeated. 

"What's that there?" Harry pointed to a dark lump just to the right. He moved to inspect it even as Tom stood, rooted to the spot, unable to comprehend the situation. He was the Heir of Slytherin. He was the only one who could access the Chamber…wasn't he? Was there another Heir now, in this time? And if so, who?

"Mrs. Norris!" Filch's cry shook Tom out of his reverie. The old man rounded the corner and staggered over to where Harry knelt by the prone form of the caretaker's cat. "What's happened to her?"

"Looks as if she's been petrified." Harry shook his head and pinned Tom with a concerned frown. "Tom, what is going on?"


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This ship's not sinking, it just hit a basilisk-shaped bump in the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All Harry's POV, all the time.

When he arrived on the scene, Albus called an emergency faculty meeting in the Charms classroom, which was just down the hall from where Mrs. Norris had been moved to the Hospital Wing. The mood was somber. Everyone was speaking in hushed whispers, trying to unravel the mystery of what happened to Filch's cat. Filch himself was sniffling in the corner, muttering alternately about his dear Mrs. Norris and how he would strangle whomever was responsible for harming her. 

Tom and Harry were the only ones not speaking. Tom was lost in thought, staring at the surface of the table as if the answers he sought were to be found in the woodgrain. Harry watched him closely, but Tom didn’t surface from his musings.

After what seemed an eternity, Albus entered and cleared his throat. "I'm afraid the moment we all thought would never come as arrived," he said. "The Chamber of Secrets has been opened a second time." There were gasps all around, followed by an uneasy silence. Harry glanced at Tom, whose scowl had only deepened. Albus continued, "Mrs. Norris was found earlier this evening. It appears she has been petrified."

Filch let out a pitiful moan.

"It's happening all over again," Minerva said.

"But what caused it? And who is responsible?" Flitwick demanded.

"And why didn't it kill Mrs. Norris? I thought the creature killed!"

"Please, everyone," Albus brought the concerned discussion to a stop. "We need to settle on a plan to ensure the safety of the students. Pomona, how is the crop of mandrakes? Will Severus be able to brew the antidote anytime soon?"

Professor Sprout shook her head sadly. "The mandrakes are still too young, I'm afraid. They won't be ready to harvest until spring. I can check some other sources to see if anyone has some that are closer to maturity, but it just isn't the season for them."

"Keep us apprised, Pomona," said Albus.

"Who opened the Chamber last time, Albus?" Harry asked. Minerva and the headmaster exchanged a worried look that did not escape him. "What?"

"We're going to have to send him away, aren't we?" Minerva said. 

Harry raised his hands in frustrated confusion. "Send whom away? The person who opened the chamber last time is still here?"

Albus sighed. "Hagrid was identified as the responsible party the first time the Chamber was opened. He was subsequently expelled." 

"Bollocks," said Harry vehemently. Minerva raised an eyebrow at his language, but he ignored her and spoke directly to Albus. "It couldn't have been Hagrid."

"I believe we all find it difficult to believe that Hagrid could be behind something like this," Albus said, "but that is what the official record states, and no one has come forward to amend that."

Harry looked thoughtful. "Maybe we can prove that he didn't do it, and figure out who's doing it now at the same time. Who accused him?"

Tom pinched the bridge of his nose and kept his eyes on the table. "I did."

The admission struck Harry like a physical blow. "Tom?" 

He looked up at Harry before immediately crossing his arms and looking away. "To be fair, I didn't say he opened the Chamber. I accused him of releasing an acromantula in the castle, _which he did_. The attacks on muggleborns stopped once Hagrid was apprehended."

"Convenient," Severus said. Minerva was eyeing Tom with suspicion, as well. 

"Harry is correct, though. Hagrid couldn't have opened the Chamber," Tom added. "You must be able to speak Parseltongue. I know, because I’m the one who first opened it." He turned back to Harry, his expression grim. 

"You opened the Chamber," Harry repeated slowly. His confusion was coalescing into something far angrier, but he fought it down to be dealt with later. "Someone _died_. And you blamed Hagrid?"

"I told you," said Tom quietly. "I am not a good person."

Harry couldn’t find the words to reply. 

Minerva coughed to break the tension. "If you are familiar with the Chamber, Tom, then perhaps you can provide us with a more detailed description," she said. "I believe we will all rest easier knowing exactly what we are up against."

Tom sighed. "The Chamber is accessed through the pipes," he said, sounding as if it pained him to share the information. "That's how the basilisk travels around the school."

"A basilisk," Severus murmured. "Of course. Its direct gaze would mean death, but Mrs. Norris must have avoided it somehow and ended up petrified instead."

"The water in the hall," said Tom. "Traveling via the plumbing often creates leaks where the basilisk goes. She must have caught sight of the basilisk's reflection in the standing water."

"Argus, you're lucky she was walking ahead of you," said Minerva.

"Right. Lucky," Filch said bitterly.

Harry raised a defiant eyebrow. "And what about the student who died last time?"

"An accident," Tom replied, his own defensive anger rearing its head. "I won't lie and say I wish I hadn't opened the thing, because I'm damned proud of finding it. But I didn't intend to kill Myrtle then and I didn't open it this time."

"But you just said you had to be a Parselmouth to open it," Harry insisted.

"The ability is extremely rare, yes, but it isn't out of the question that someone else in the castle might have the gift."

"But—"

"In case you've forgotten, I was with you when the basilisk was roaming around," Tom bit out.

Harry flushed slightly, but let the subject drop.

"Tom is not on trial here," Albus intoned. "We are here because we need to deal with the problem at hand, and it would appear that Tom is not at fault. We need to put our energy into keeping the children safe and preventing further attacks."

"Agreed," said Minerva. "Students shall not be allowed to travel unaccompanied in the halls, and a curfew is necessary. I expect everyone to help enforce these rules. If the students complain—and they undoubtedly will—remind them that detention is better than being petrified. Or worse."

Tom cleared his throat. "The basilisk is able to travel freely through the pipes in the walls, but there are some telltale signs that it is near. The water on the floor is a clue, obviously. Watch how other creatures behave, as well. Spiders are afraid of it, so if anyone sees a group of spiders fleeing en masse, it would be in your best interest to do the same."

"Very well. If there are no other questions, let us inform the students of the situation," said Albus. "Good luck. At the first sign of trouble, notify someone and get the students to safety immediately. Tom, might I speak with you a moment?"

Tom remained in his seat as the other professors filed out, whispering worriedly to one another. Harry stayed put, too, even if at the moment he wanted to get on a broom and not come down for at least a week. But if he walked out now, he was afraid that Tom would rebuild the walls they had very recently started to dismantle and Harry wouldn’t have another chance to get past them. Now he knew what Tom had sought Hagrid’s forgiveness for at the beginning of the term, and he understood why Minerva felt Hagrid had been too quick to forgive him.

It was naive, but Harry thought of the terrible actions Tom spoke of as being in the murky past, far removed from their life now. Tom had hurt people Harry would never know, would never need to know. That made it easier to wipe the slate clean and forgive Tom for whatever he had done before. But this business with the Chamber affected people Harry knew and cared for. Hagrid was one of his favorite people in the world, and Tom had thrown him under the proverbial bus. Harry wasn’t sure how to sort it all out.

On the other hand, Hagrid had been the victim and had forgiven Tom. And Tom had warned Harry that he had done some questionable things--though “questionable” was perhaps a bit economical with the truth, considering Tom said he’d killed people, _plural_ , and Harry wasn’t quite ready to go there--but he had warned him. So Harry was left with a vague feeling of unjustified disappointment and an acute awareness of Tom next to him, even more stiff and stoic than usual.

"Whatever it is, Albus, you can say it in front of Harry,” Tom said when the headmaster raised a brow. 

Albus sat down across from Tom with a tired sigh. "Do you have any idea who might have opened the Chamber?"

"None, unfortunately."

"I thought not," said the headmaster. "Should we simply remove the threat? Kill the basilisk outright?"

Tom frowned. "Then it is unlikely we would ever determine who gained access to the Chamber, and how."

"Is it that important that we figure out who did it?" Harry asked. "The most important thing is the safety of the students. If killing the basilisk will ensure that, then let's do it."

"We need to know who did it because we need to know why," Tom insisted, jabbing one long finger against the table. "I want to know how someone got in." 

"To what end?" Harry insisted. "We're lucky that the only victim so far has been Mrs. Norris. A student or one of us may be next. So what if we never figure out who did it? Whoever it was, it’s possible they didn’t realize what they would release into the school when they opened the Chamber."

“Or they knew exactly what they were doing.”

Albus held up a placating hand. "We need to identify the culprit because if we have someone in the school who wishes to enforce Slytherin's draconian views on blood purity, then there is no guarantee that they will stop there. What else might they be capable of?" He glanced at Tom over his half-moon spectacles. "You know as well as I do, Tom, that such views lead down a dangerous path."

There was the telltale tic on Tom’s jaw. "Indeed," he said tightly. “We need to get to the bottom of this sooner rather than later. We could stake out the Chamber’s access point.”

“Can we do it in a manner that will not alert the students to the entrance’s location?” Albus asked. “If it is located in a public place, that may be difficult.”

Tom shifted a bit in his chair, and Harry realized that he still didn’t want to tell them where the Chamber’s access point was located. “It’s in a girls’ lavatory. That might make things difficult.”

Which is how he found himself headed for Myrtle’s toilet, Tom silently keeping pace while keeping his distance as they walked. He was limping a bit from chasing after the basilisk, Harry realized. He slowed down a bit.

Finally, Tom spoke as they neared the door to the toilet. "I've disappointed you," he said quietly.

Harry sighed. "You did warn me." He was more resigned than angry, which seemed to catch Tom off-guard.

"I did," Tom agreed. "And there is more."

"I assumed."

"Would telling you everything help me earn your trust again?"

“I don’t know,” Harry answered honestly. “It isn’t that I don’t trust you, Tom. It’s only--I’m struggling a bit with reconciling it all. It’s one thing to hear about this in the abstract, but to find out you did that to someone I actually know and care about? Not to mention knowing you’re responsible for Myrtle’s death. It isn’t as easy to overlook as I thought,” he admitted.

"I understand," said Tom, voice brittle. Harry regarded him for a moment, noting his death-grip on the cane. He was trying very hard not to let it show, but Harry could tell he was miserable. Not quite ready to examine what it said about him that he was willing to accept all these newly revealed complications so quickly, Harry stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him. There was the briefest of hesitations before Tom’s arms came up and circled Harry’s shoulders in return. 

“I trust you,” Harry repeated, mouth pressed to Tom’s neck. “I may not always agree with you, and I may find you infuriating sometimes, but I trust you."

Tom snorted. "Then you're a self-destructive idiot who doesn't know how to stay out of trouble."

"You should talk."

Tom squeezed him tighter in retaliation before releasing him. He seemed significantly more relaxed as he opened the door with the sign that proclaimed the bathroom was out of order. Harry was surprised at how dilapidated the bathroom was. Old, spotted mirrors reflected the light of a few stubby candles. The stall doors were flaking paint and hung crookedly in their frames like a row of neglected teeth. From inside one of them came a ghostly muttering that echoed weirdly off the grungy tiles.

“Myrtle?” Harry called. Her head appeared over the top of the stall door, eyes magnified to comic proportions by her glasses.

“What are you two doing in here? This is a girls’ toilet!”

“We know,” Harry replied hastily, “and we’re sorry to bother you. But we need--”

Myrtle floated over the stall and approached them, eyeing Tom warily. “I remember you,” she said.

“Hello, Myrtle,” said Tom, after clearing his throat uncomfortably. “How have you been?”

Harry winced.

“Dead,” she said emphatically, a quaver to her voice.

Sensing that she was about to launch into one of her tirades, Harry quickly added, “And that’s why we need your help. Has anything out of the ordinary happened in here recently?”

Myrtle fixed them with a tart glare. “Besides two men coming into the girls’ toilet, you mean?”

“Yes, besides that.”

“Well,” she sighed, and floated up to perch on the windowsill, the stained glass giving her translucent form a parti-colored appearance. “People hardly ever come in here. I usually have the run of the place, but earlier today someone came in. I was down in the U-bend--it’s cozy down there, you know--and I heard someone speaking a language I’ve only ever heard once before.”

Harry glanced at Tom. “What did it sound like?” he asked.

“Sort of a hissing,” said Myrtle. “I recognized it because I also heard it the day I died.”

Tom demanded, “Did you see anything today when you heard the hissing? Who was speaking?”

“I don’t know. I stayed down in the U-bend because I was frightened!” Myrtle was really wailing now. Tom let out a frustrated noise and turned away. Harry stepped toward her and offered her a handkerchief. She couldn’t take it, obviously, but he hoped the thought might count. It seemed to work, as she shook her head at his offering and instead wiped her nose on her sleeve.

“Myrtle,” he said gently, “I’m sorry you were frightened. I imagine being reminded of your death isn’t very enjoyable.”

She sniffled a bit. “I don’t mind being dead, really. I got to haunt Olive Hornby for a while. That was nice.”

“Would you be willing to help us with something else?”

“Maybe,” she said.

“You would have to be brave. But I know you can do that.” Harry said with an encouraging smile. Myrtle giggled. From over by the taps, Tom muttered something incomprehensible but tetchy. Harry ignored him. “We need to find out who was speaking that language in here. They’re using it to open the Chamber of Secrets and are putting other students at risk, like when you died. If you hear it again, would you come find one of us?”

“Just come find you?”

“Just come find us and tell us, as quickly as you can. Could you do that?”

Myrtle gave him a watery smile. “All right.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the unplanned brief hiatus. Blame Irma-related power outages, change-of-season sickness, and work really getting busy. But here is an update to make up for it, and we should resume our regular weekly updates on Tuesdays or Wednesdays from here on out.
> 
> Also, I apologize for being one of those pesky "fade to black" authors. Love to read the smut, can't write it to save my life.

In addition to drafting Myrtle as a sentry in their quest to identify the person who opened the Chamber, Tom cast an intruder charm that would notify them if anyone spoke Parseltongue in the toilet in question in case Myrtle was off haunting elsewhere in the castle at the time. It wasn’t easy to manipulate the security spells at Hogwarts, and judging by the look on Harry’s face he was aware that Tom really shouldn’t have been able to do it, at all. But he said nothing as Tom worked, one hand firmly planted on the slimy stone wall of the lavatory, wand tracing elaborate patterns in the damp air.

He didn’t realize how tired he was until Harry wordlessly threaded an arm around his middle as they walked in the direction of Tom’s rooms, providing a more reliable walking aid than the cane could ever be. Leaning on Harry, he could not help but be reminded of how Harry had been nothing but bones once, cradled in his arms as they descended the stairs to the lakeside in the predawn light in an attempt to save his life. An attempt that failed miserably, Tom noted, but the thought was fleeting because this was Harry helping him up the stairs from the classroom to Tom's private quarters, Harry who deposited him on the sofa in his sitting area, apologizing when Tom hissed at the movement. Harry started to step away, but Tom leaned forward and wound his arms around his waist, burying his face for a moment in the soft fabric of Harry’s shirt.

Harry’s fingers carded through his hair and cradled the base of his skull with one hand. Tom pulled away enough to look up at him, hands sliding around to rest at Harry’s hips. “There are things I need to tell you,” he said quietly.

Fingers still threaded in his hair, Harry nodded. “It will keep until morning. You look dead on your feet.”

Tom hummed in agreement. “I feel it.”

“Come on, then. Bed.” Tom’s uncertainty must have shown on his face, because Harry added, “We both need a decent night’s sleep. That’s all.”

Tom watched him for a moment before he nodded, and felt something flutter in his gut as Harry’s smile reached his eyes and his glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose just a millimeter. He gave Tom a hand up and followed him into the bedroom.

Harry simply toed off his shoes before stretching out fully-clothed on top of the bedspread, without a word about the conspicuously absent bed curtains. “What is it?” he asked, noting Tom’s hesitation.

“I don’t often sleep well. I’m afraid I might disturb you.” It was putting it mildly. Minerva was right, Tom’s sleeping habits were atrocious.

“Then I’ll just kick you out. And you have my permission to give me the boot if I hog the blanket,” Harry replied, patting the space next to him. “Now come here.”

Tom followed suit, lying down next to Harry after taking a hefty dose of the potion to ease his aching hip. Harry watched him settle for a moment before he leaned over and brushed his mouth across Tom’s, fingers lingering at Tom’s jaw for a moment before he tossed his glasses in the general direction of the nearby table and snuffed the candles with a word. In the darkness, Tom could hear the crackling of the logs in the low fire, and Harry’s breathing as it evened out almost immediately. Contrary to Tom’s earlier warning, he followed close behind.

He would have slept well into the morning had something not tickled him awake. He opened one eye to find Harry had tucked his head under his chin and his unruly mop of hair was rather ticklish on his neck. Judging by the light from the windows, it was early morning. Tom had not expected to sleep as well as he had, considering everything that was on his mind, not the least of which was currently spooned up to him and snoring lightly. Tom watched the rise and fall of Harry’s blunt fingers splayed over his chest with something akin to awe. He was incredibly thankful it wasn’t a school day.

As comfortable as he was, eventually his mind turned back to the puzzle of how the basilisk had gotten out of the Chamber when he was the only one who knew its location or how to open it. He knew he hadn't opened it, so who had? He was the Heir of Slytherin, for Merlin's sake. He didn't appreciate someone nosing around what was his.

“It’s Sunday,” Harry murmured, and Tom could feel it reverberate in his chest. “Why are you awake?”

“And here I thought you were a morning person.”

“Not on Sundays when I’m extremely comfortable. Though you are a bit bony.” Harry poked him in the side before leaning in for a kiss that was soft and warm and sleepy.

Harry pulled away just enough to meet Tom’s gaze with slightly unfocused eyes that were impossibly more green when viewed from that distance and without Harry’s glasses in the way. "Sometimes," Harry whispered, searching his face, "you look at me as if you expect me to vanish."

Tom thought of snapping Harry’s wand and tucking it into his lifeless fingers. "I don't want to lose you again," he said earnestly. "Not when it took me so long to find you." Harry shivered and wrapped his arms around Tom's waist, tugging him closer.

“One of these days, you’re going to have to explain that,” he said against Tom’s cheek.

Tom swallowed, fingers dragging down Harry’s spine until they reached the hem of his shirt and the warm skin there. “It’s a long story,” he said, “and not a particularly flattering one.”

“Then tell me a little at a time,” said Harry after thinking a moment. “Tell me about speaking Parseltongue.”

“Out of everything, you chose that?” Tom had been expecting Harry to question him about the Chamber, or the people he’d hurt, or his encounter with Death. Parseltongue hadn’t even been on the list.

Harry shrugged as best he could in his current position. “It’s interesting. When did you figure out you were a Parselmouth?”

“When I was seven. One of the older children did something I didn’t like, and I was outside plotting my retaliation. When I came across the snake I thought I might kill it and put it in his bed, but it said hello and asked to be put back down on the ground. It startled me so much that I dropped it, so I suppose it got its wish. I didn’t realize how rare the ability was until I came here as a student.”

“Could someone learn to speak Parseltongue?”

“Translating charms don’t work with the language, and it isn’t as if there’s a dictionary. You can’t write in Parseltongue.” 

“No, but could someone learn to just...I don’t know, recognize and mimic the sounds? Like singers do.”

“Listen to lots of songs in foreign languages, do you?” Tom chuckled.

Harry poked him in the ribs. “Mum likes Edith Piaf,” he explained. “She knows every syllable of every song, though I doubt she understands half of what she’s saying.”

“Someone would have to hear it spoken aloud in order to do that, and Parselmouths are rare. From what I’ve read, they have always been reluctant to leave any kind of record of the language itself. Present company included.”

“No recordings of any kind? That seems unlikely. I’ll bet portraits of Slytherin can speak it.”

“I highly doubt one of Salazar Slytherin’s portraits would agree to tutor anyone in Parseltongue,” Tom snorted.

“No memories left in a pensieve somewhere?”

Tom frowned down at him. “Why are you so interested in Parseltongue?”

Harry propped up on his elbow with a sigh. “I was thinking about what you said after our duel at the first Duelling Club meeting,” he said. “You said you knew someone who also spoke Parseltongue.”

“I did. Briefly,” Tom agreed. He wasn’t sure he was prepared for Harry’s line of inquiry.

“I thought--” Harry cut himself off, a little color appearing on his cheeks. “I thought it might be nice if you had that again. Someone to converse with. I was thinking about surprising you.”

Tom blinked up at Harry for a moment, speechless. No one had ever offered to do such a thing for him. People gave him things out of pity for the poor orphan boy, or because they wanted his favor or influence when he was older and already gathering followers. Tom believed everyone had an ulterior motive because he always had one, himself. It made accepting kindness rather difficult. 

The moment dragged until Harry gave him a sheepish smile. “Stupid idea, right?”

“No,” Tom said fervently. “Not a stupid idea.” He leaned up and caught Harry’s mouth with his own.

* * *

Word of the basilisk attack spread. Most of the students weren’t overtly fearful of the situation because the victim had been Mrs. Norris. As far as they were concerned, it was a spooky story that didn’t affect them. Harry just shook his head and watched the rumor mill work overtime at the tables in the Great Hall.

“Little fools won’t take it seriously until one of their own is petrified. Or worse,” Severus muttered at breakfast.

“Hopefully it won’t come to that,” Minerva replied. “In the meantime, dock as many points as necessary if they resist the escorts or curfew. And don’t give me that look, Severus, you know the Gryffindors will be the ones who want to go running off after the beast. I’ll be lucky if we finish the term with any points at all.”

“Truer words have never been spoken,” Harry agreed. He passed an orange to Tom on his left and found him surreptitiously surveying the student body over the top of his teacup, examining them for any sign of suspicious behavior. “See anything?” Harry asked quietly without turning to face him completely.

“Nothing of interest,” Tom replied, not taking his eyes off the students. “The Ravenclaws are all gathered around copies of _Hogwarts: A History_. They’ll be asking a lot of questions, I’m sure.”

“Some of the younger students look distressed,” Harry noted. “I see at least three Hufflepuffs I’m going to have to console. Vera Summerby looks positively ill.”

Tom sighed. “She’s probably back to being afraid I’m going to murder her in her sleep.”

Harry stood, gathering his things. “Time to face the music. Gryffindors learning to barrel-roll."

"Immediately after breakfast? Ghastly."

"It isn't pretty," Harry agreed. "I specifically wait until I know they've learned a couple of cleaning charms from Filius. See you later,” he said, giving Tom’s shoulder a quick squeeze. As he passed the Gryffindor table, Theresa Ogilvie gave him a grin and a thumbs up. He rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help but return her smile.

The day’s classes went about as expected. He had to ask them to be quiet more than usual, and there was a brawl because two Slytherins referred to a Gryffindor as a mudblood. When he saw the Gryffindor was winning the fight, Harry waited just a little longer than he probably should have before intervening and assigning everyone detention after a thorough dressing-down about archaic and offensive views on blood purity. He hoped Hermione would be proud of him.

It was much the same for the rest of the week. Myrtle did not seek them out, and no alarms were triggered. 

Patience was not one of Tom’s strengths lately. Harry was well aware of this, and went out of his way to be as pleasantly distracting as possible. Tom grumbled about it, but Harry knew it was more out of a sense of obligation than due to any real irritation. Truthfully, Harry was just as on edge as Tom was and needed the distraction, too. 

A week after Mrs. Norris was petrified, Harry still had not asked any questions about Tom’s past activities beyond some smaller, more surface ones. He knew Tom was just as happy not to have that discussion--or discussions, as he knew it would likely be several--quite yet, and Harry was content to keep to his suggestion that Tom tell him a little at a time.

“No one else know about the Chamber?” Harry asked from his seat on the floor, back against the sofa. He had Quidditch charts and diagrams and playbooks spread out in front of him, a quill gripped in his teeth as he sorted through them with both hands. Tom was stretched out on the sofa behind him, hands clasped over his stomach, staring at the shadowy recesses of the ceiling. Harry had learned that when Tom went quiet these days, it meant he was focusing all his not inconsiderable brainpower on the puzzle of the Chamber.

“No one,” he replied, still glaring at the ceiling. “I thought we would have heard something by now.”

“And you’re positive that you left no notes, no instructions? Nothing that someone could have come across and used to suss out how to access the Chamber?”

“No. We’ve been over this at least a dozen times.”

Harry frowned at the paper in his hand, scribbled a note on it, and flipped some pages in the playbook. “I know, but there has to be something we’re missing. What about how you found the Chamber? Could someone have done similar research and come across it all on their own?”

“I highly doubt it,” Tom snorted. “Besides, even if they did find it, they’d have to speak Parseltongue to open it.”

“Could you have left something in some kind of code or encryption spell? Even one you thought no one else could possibly decipher?” Harry asked. Tom rolled his eyes and Harry pointed his quill warningly at him over his shoulder. “I know you think your work was head and shoulders above the capabilities of these students, but even the worst wizards sometimes stumble onto something. And unless you figured out how to write in Parseltongue--which, _yes_ , I know you said isn’t possible, I’m just making a point--there’s a possibility that someone figured it out. And you know that, or you wouldn’t be as protective of your things. I haven’t forgotten how you reacted when we found that diary of yours.”

Tom sat up suddenly, eyes wide and searching as he was clearly thinking through something. Harry paused, watching him closely. Tom scrambled off the sofa without even bothering to grab his cane, and headed for his office. There was the sound of drawers opening and closing, and objects being rifled through. When he heard a string of muffled curses, Harry set aside his work and followed Tom into the office.

He stopped in the doorway and watched in dismay as Tom knelt and dug through the pile of his books and papers, tossing them aside at such velocity that he had to dodge one or two. "It isn't here. It's gone."

"What's gone?"

"The diary, damn it all—"

"Someone took it? Why would they do that?" Harry knelt to help sift through the wreckage of the office.

Tom stood and leaned unsteadily against his desk. He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. Harry paused, noting his mounting frustration.

"Tom, it hadn't even been written in. Does it matter so much if it's gone?" Harry asked carefully. "No offense, but you don't seem like the sentimental type."

"It wasn't empty. I think—I'm sure that the diary is what's allowed someone access to the Chamber of Secrets."

Harry's brow furrowed in thought. "So I was right. You recorded details about the Chamber, and then enchanted it to protect what you wrote? You think someone's figured out how to get past those spells?"

"More or less," Tom hedged. 

“Tom, what aren’t you telling me?” Harry asked, trying his best to keep his voice even. “It's a just a diary. You wrote things in it that you didn’t want other people to read. Why was it so difficult to tell me that?" He stopped short, watching the wary expression on Tom’s face. He remembered Tom grabbing the diary back from him like it was a precious thing he couldn’t be without. "Unless there's more to it than that," he added slowly. When Tom didn't utter an immediate denial, Harry made a frustrated noise and tugged his hands through his hair, turning to face the window.

Behind him, he heard Tom rattling around by the hearth. The sound of floo powder hitting the flames followed shortly after. Harry turned around just in time for Hermione’s head to appear in the fireplace.

“Tom!” she said, clearly surprised. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you until our meeting next week. What’s going on?”

The flames cast stark shadows on Tom’s face, and Harry saw his jaw tighten before he responded to her. “What do you know,” Tom asked, “about Horcruxes?”


	9. Chapter 9

Tom had a theory, and in order to test that theory he needed someone with access to resources he would never have been privy to as a student. He was not usually one to seek help, but Hermione seemed both reasonable and remarkably intelligent. If he had to bring someone else in on this, she was the best choice. Involving her might also appease Harry somewhat, though he knew the bulk of that responsibility fell to him. He ended the communication with her after she agreed to come to Hogwarts the following morning to share what information she could find.

Harry had stepped out during most of his conversation with Hermione, but Tom was aware of his quiet presence behind him once more. He remained crouched low by the fire, still shaking a bit from the panicked realization that the diary was gone. "I should have told you about the diary. I didn't know how."

“Then tell me now.” Harry placed a cup of tea on the carpet next to him before he also found a seat on the floor, legs stretched out in the sea of parchment and books, back against the side of Tom’s desk. He cradled his own teacup in his lap, steam curling up beneath his chin.

In for a knut, in for a galleon, thought Tom. He took a steadying breath and said, "The diary isn't exactly charmed for secrecy. It's a Horcrux."

Harry considered him for a moment, brow furrowed. "I don't know what that is. I'm not sure I want to."

"I made it years ago. You split your soul and put a piece of it into an object. If you die, then a piece of you remains. You essentially become immortal."

"There is a piece of your soul in that diary?" Harry asked. Setting his teacup aside, he removed his glasses and scrubbed his face with one hand. "I can't believe I'm asking this—but this is _you_ we're talking about—how do you split a soul?"

"Murder. You have to have killed someone.” The fact that Tom had killed people was not news to Harry, but that didn’t mean Tom wasn’t expecting this part of the conversation to be any easier.

Harry nodded slowly, thinking. "Who did you kill to create the Horcrux?"

"Myrtle. I know I said her death was an accident, and it was," he insisted, refusing to allow Harry to interrupt, "but just because I didn't mean to kill her doesn't mean it didn't happen. Taking a life causes a rift in your soul, no matter the circumstances. Creating a Horcrux simply puts the broken part into a different receptacle." Even as the sanitized explanation left his mouth, he realized how absurd it sounded. Harry did not appear to be buying it, either.

"I can't even begin to—how would you even—your _soul_ , Tom?” Tom suddenly wished Harry would be angry, furious...anything but the aggrieved disappointment that was somehow much, much more painful to behold. Harry seemed more concerned about the lasting effects of Tom's dalliances with the Dark Arts rather than the use of the foul spell itself, and Tom really had no idea what to do with that but keep talking.

"I was going to make more," he said quietly. "I was going to make six. Six Horcruxes, plus what remained of my soul within me. Seven in all."

"You’re serious?"

"I could have. My soul was split enough times to start, anyway." The implications of that statement settled heavy between them. "My father and his parents. He abandoned my mother when he discovered she was a witch and had tricked him into marrying her.”

Harry had heard that part of the story before. "Did…did you enjoy it? Killing your father?"

"Yes. At first, anyway." Still staring at the floor, Tom felt a sense of déjà vu, having discussed the murder of his father with Harry once before, on the bed in the hospital wing. "I did it because I was angry, and because I could. But it didn't make a difference. He abandoned my mother and me because he feared us. I thought it would make me feel better to show him that I was capable of so much worse than what he feared, but it didn't. He was a sad, pathetic man."

"One Horcrux is bad enough. Why would you do that to yourself?" 

"My mother died when I was born, and I hated her for it. She was weak, and I wasn't going to be like her,” Tom said, surprising himself with his own vehemence.

"Oh, Tom," said Harry, crawling over to kneel in front of him, heedless of the parchment and books and quills. "Is there—could you repair it? Piece your soul back together?"

“I don’t know. I’m not sure I can. I’m not sure I want to,” Tom said, honesty rough in his throat. The idea of the Horcrux being destroyed--whether or not it resulted in the restoration of his soul--was an idea that still make him feel physically ill. “I’m not even sure how the Horcrux could have helped whoever took it to access the Chamber, but it’s the best theory we have right now.”

Harry leaned forward and took his hand, thumb brushing over the knuckles. “Then we’ll find it,” he said. “We’ll find it, and we’ll find whoever is opening the Chamber, and we’ll find a way to mend your hip. And maybe we’ll find a way to mend your soul, too.”

Tom shivered at the certainty in his voice. “I don’t understand you,” he marveled for what felt like the millionth time. “Why are you so accepting of all this? I tell you I’m a murderer, and that it’s the least of my sins, and you immediately focus on putting me back together again.”

“I’ve asked myself that same question,” said Harry, looking down at their joined hands. “But they’re things you did _before_. They’re part of your history, part of you. I have to accept them if I want you in my life. And I most definitely want that. Want _you_.” His eyes dragged up to Tom’s face, watching him over the rims of his glasses. He raised Tom’s hand to his mouth and kissed it. Tom knew his hip would make him regret it in the morning, but he pulled Harry to him until they were both stretched out on the carpet, pressed close. There was something restless and feverish about their movements, and if Tom held him tightly enough to bruise and Harry unraveled too quickly, it mattered to neither of them.

They must have fallen asleep there, after, because the next thing Tom knew the fire had died down and there was an insistent knocking at his office door. Harry woke, as well, green eyes blinking open slowly in the dim until he registered the clamour at the door. Tom rose carefully, hip stiffer than usual, and smoothed his shirt as he limped to the door.

Minerva stood there, looking grim in her tartan dressing gown.

Tom gripped the doorknob so tightly his knuckles creaked. “Who was it this time?”

* * *

Harry watched Poppy tuck the thin blanket around the petrified form of David Montesquieu. Floating a few inches above the blanket on the next bed was Moaning Myrtle, her immobile ghostly form now a strange, smoky black. It was not quite five o’clock in the morning, and what little sleep he and Tom had managed had not exactly been comfortable. 

Neither was the conversation Tom was currently having with Albus in the privacy of Poppy’s office, judging by the tone of the voices emanating through the closed door. Minerva and Poppy kept glancing between the office and Harry, but he wasn’t about to volunteer any information about the subject of Tom’s chat with the headmaster. Especially when the subject was Tom’s Horcrux, something about which Harry wasn’t knowledgable enough to discuss, anyway. 

“Where was he found?” he asked with a nod to Montesquieu, taking off his glasses and dragging a hand over his face.

“Third floor corridor,” said Minerva. “He and two other Ravenclaws snuck out and were prowling around, trying to figure out where the Chamber entrance is located. Lucky for them, they were using mirrors to check the corridors before they turned any corners.”

“And Myrtle?” 

“In the girls lavatory.” 

“Well, that explains why she didn’t come find us,” said Harry with a sigh. Poor Myrtle, to have twice fallen victim to the same monster. Albus and Tom emerged from the office then, expressions varying degrees of inscrutable. 

“It doesn’t explain why the wards weren’t triggered,” Tom said. He prowled over to lean against the window, arms crossed and a scowl firmly in place. Harry tried to catch his eye for some hint as to how the conversation had gone with Albus, but Tom stared steadfastly ahead.

Albus hummed thoughtfully. “When you told me last week that you’d altered the wards there, I admit I was surprised. I inspected it myself, and it was an impressive feat of spellwork. An impressive feat of spellwork that was, unfortunately, no longer in effect when we found poor Myrtle tonight.”

Tom stood up straighter. “What?”

“Did you undo them, Albus?” Minerva asked.

“I did not. Nor did Tom, judging by his reaction.”

Harry moved to stand next to Tom, close enough that their shoulders touched. It was a welcome spot of warmth against the chill emanating from the window. “If you didn’t remove it, Albus, and neither did Tom, then who could it have been? How many people are capable of altering the school’s security spells?”

“Tom and myself,” the headmaster ticked off the list on gnarled fingers. “Minerva could, I imagine.”

“Though I’ve never tried,” she replied. “Anyone else?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Damn it,” Tom muttered. “I thought we were prepared. Whoever we’re dealing with is more powerful than I’d suspected.”

“The best laid plans, my dear,” said Minerva, not unsympathetically.

Albus peered at Tom and Harry over his half-moon spectacles. “Walk with me?” 

They fell into step silently, Harry sticking close by Tom’s side. It was early enough yet that they passed no one in the halls as they made their way to the Defense classroom, though that would soon change.

“Tom shared his theory about the Horcrux,” said Albus, “and I agree that it is our most promising lead at the moment.”

“It’s our only lead at the moment,” Harry pointed out. Tom muttered something under his breath.

“Indeed. Which is why we need to locate it and whoever took it, as soon as possible. We have no way of knowing what effect the Horcrux may have on them.”

Tom grimaced. “That’s where I’m hoping Hermione might be able to assist us. I’m hoping to compile a list of symptoms, if you will, that we can watch for. If someone starts behaving as if they have been in close contact with the Horcrux, we can pull them aside and investigate.”

Albus sighed as they reached the classroom. “I needn’t tell you that Mr. Montesquieu’s falling victim changes things,” he said. “The board of governors will be investigating. Tom, you must be on your guard more than ever. I will do what I can to assuage their fears, but you mustn’t give them any reason to come after you. Especially Dilys Summerby.”

Tom did not reply. Judging by his sour expression, it was a good thing. Harry placed a steadying hand at Tom’s back and said, “Thank you, Albus.”

The old man’s blue eyes did not miss Harry’s possessive gesture. “Excellent,” he said, tone lightening a bit. “Take care of each other. Your student fanclub will be most distressed if you don’t.” 

Harry gave him a tight smile. “We will.”

* * *

Tom’s meeting with Hermione was now more important than ever, so Harry offered to take Tom’s class at ten o’clock. When he inquired if there was anything else he could do, Tom replied, “Besides find the diary, put it under wards so heavy they would make Azkaban look like a crossword puzzle, and then hex whoever stole it into oblivion.”

“And the board of governors too, while I’m at it?” asked Harry dryly.

“Especially the board of governors.”

Somehow, Tom made it though the first classes of the day without incident. The students were markedly subdued, as they all knew of David Montesquieu’s petrification. The period with the Fifth Year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs were the most solemn. Tom suspected he would have to repeat much of what he covered in that day’s lectures, but he did not begrudge the students their distraction. 

When Hermione arrived, carrying an attache case nearly overflowing with folders and looking vexed, he ushered through his office and into the sitting area of his quarters. He had barely closed the door behind him before she dropped the heavy case to the floor with a thud and marched up to him, livid.

“You utter bastard,” she hissed.

Startled, Tom took a step back. “I won’t argue that point,” he said, “but can you be more specific?”

“Do you have any idea the monstrous things I just stayed up reading all night?” Hermione demanded. “I’m about ninety percent certain one of them was bound in human skin.”

“Pleasant,” said Tom, for lack of any other response. He coughed once, but stayed put.

She glared at him for a long moment. Tom had the distinct feeling of being weighed and found wanting. He did not like it. “Does Harry know about the Horcrux?” asked Hermione at last.

“Yes.”

“Does he know what is involved in creating one?”

“The general idea, yes.”

“And he’s still speaking to you?”

“ _Yes_. Hermione, what--”

She turned away, looking slightly less as if she wanted to stab him with one of the various quills and inkpens stuck in her hair. “I want to like you, Tom,” she said, and Tom struggled to keep up with the shift in topic. “Harry is absolutely wild about you, so I need to like you. And I do. But this?” she gestured to the stack of papers spilling out of the attache case onto the floor, “This is making it difficult.”

“Ah,” said Tom. “I apologize for dragging you into this.”

“No, no, that’s not the issue, Tom, don’t you see?” she implored. “I don’t object to helping you with this, except for the part where the books are made of people. What I don’t like is reading about this process--which is horrifying at best, might I add--knowing you performed it.”

“Well, I did,” Tom snapped. “And I just spent the better part of last night discussing my moral shortcomings at length with Harry, so I’m not terribly keen to do it again. Beyond locating the Horcrux and putting a stop to whomever is opening the Chamber, Harry’s opinion on the matter is the only one I give a damn about. So either you can find a way to help us, or you can’t.”

She sighed, abashed. “You’re right.”

Tom’s anger deflated a bit. “About what?”

“I need to trust Harry’s judgment. And you,” she said. “Everything else is none of my business. I’m sorry I raked you over the coals like that. I suppose I’m just on edge after everything I read last night.”

Feeling equally chagrined, Tom guided her to the overstuffed chair. “What little I managed to get my hands on years ago wasn’t pretty,” he said, sitting on the sofa. “I can only imagine what you managed to unearth, working at the Ministry.”

“I don’t know why it bothered me so much,” she said. “That wasn’t very professional of me.”

“You care about Harry. It’s understandable,” Tom conceded. “I can sympathize.”

She huffed a laugh and roused herself out of her slump. “Right then,” she said firmly, toeing off her heels and pulling her feet up to sit cross-legged in the chair. She pulled a yellow Muggle legal pad from the recesses of the attache and started flipping through it determinedly, revealing page after page of meticulous notes. “First things first: I’ve found very little information on Horcruxes, even less on how to destroy them, and nothing at all on how to reverse them.”

“I’m not surprised,” Tom said. “Anyone who goes to the trouble of creating one would want to keep it as secret as possible.”

“Now, before I continue,” she said, “I have a theory about your hip.”

Tom scowled. “I don’t recall discussing that with you,” he said with forced calm.

“You can take that up with Harry, then,” Hermione said with an apologetic wince. “He asked me to look into it after we met in Hogsmeade.”

“Of course he did. Damned optimistic fool,” Tom said, not without affection.

“In any case, medicine isn’t my specialty. I wasn’t turning up much helpful information until we spoke last night,” Hermione continued. “I think the wound on your hip is a physical manifestation of the rift in your soul.”

Tom considered this. If that were the case and the affliction was not strictly a medical one, it would make sense that St. Mungo’s had been unable to help in any way. On the other hand, he had created the Horcrux long before his encounter with Death that had resulted in the wound. Something wasn’t adding up. “Explain,” he said.

“I was reading about the effects that a Horcrux can have on others,” Hermione said, glancing at her notes. “I also found a few references to the effects it can have on the creator. There is some indication that the more fractured a soul is, the more impact it will have on the body. If you’re dead, the soul has evacuated, and the body starts to decay. If there is little enough of the soul remaining, the body starts to think it’s, well, dead.”

“But I’ve only created one Horcrux. How would that be possible?” Tom asked, suddenly feeling very, very glad he had not followed through with his plan to create multiple Horcruxes. Merlin only knew what he would look like, or feel like, had he carried out that plan to completion.

“You were in the Underworld, right?”

“I was.” He closed his eyes, fingers tightening on the arm of the sofa.

“So I think your body thinks you’re still there, because your soul isn’t complete,” Hermione said softly. “Which brings us to my next point. It would seem a Horcrux must be destroyed beyond all hope of repair, which would be difficult with traditional spells. As for reversing a Horcrux and thus repairing your soul, well. I’ve found nothing to corroborate this, so keep in mind that this is purely theoretical. I believe that in order to repair your soul and put the fragment from the Horcrux back, you would need to be the one to destroy the Horcrux. It would have to be you, and you would have to mean it. Just destroying it wouldn’t repair it, it would leave your soul incomplete forever. There has to be genuine remorse for the act that split your soul in the first place.”

Tom scrubbed a hand over his face with a sigh. “That sounds plausible,” he admitted. 

“You have to destroy it,” Hermione repeated softly. 

“I don’t know if I can.”

“It has to be possible. We can research methods of absolute, irreversible destruction--”

“I don’t mean I don’t know if it’s possible. I mean _I don’t know if I can do it_.”

Just the thought of losing the Horcrux, an albatross though it was, brought a panicked feeling in his chest. It was his failsafe. If something happened to him, he needed to know that there was an out. He had worked so hard to find the information, to complete the task and hide that fragment of his soul safely within the pages of the diary, could he give it up now? Even to improve his current life? Even for Harry?

When the time came, he would go back to the sandy misery of Death’s realm. And this time, she wouldn’t release her prey.

He didn’t realize he hadn’t been breathing and the edges of his vision were growing dark until he felt Hermione’s hand on his shoulder and heard her repeating firmly that he needed to put his head down and breathe.

He followed her instructions, listening to her voice through the roar in his ears, and though he felt the grip of the panic starting to loosen and the tingling feeling returning to his limbs, he didn’t feel any less miserable.

Hermione said quietly, “Think of it this way: if you die, a part of you would survive via the Horcrux. But is it the part of you that you wish to be your legacy?”

Tom said nothing, but he knew the answer.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to post this chapter back over the holidays, but alas, it didn't happen. I managed to write ahead a bit, so I should be able to post more regularly now, though likely not every week. I'm thinking this will pan out to about 15 chapters total, but I'm hesitant to pin it down.
> 
> A lot of Harry's POV this time around.

Hermione caught Harry’s eye as she descended the stairs after her discussion with Tom. Taking her cue, he followed her into the corridor so she could fill him in, just far enough to be out of hearing range but still able to keep a watchful eye on the students as they worked in groups.

“Shit,” he sighed upon learning that Tom knew he’d asked Hermione to look into his hip wound. “How angry was he?”

“He wasn’t happy about it, but I think he has other things to worry about right now.”

She was right. As adamant as Tom had been to return to teaching when Harry covered the Boggart lesson for him, Harry expected him to come stalking down the stairs at any moment, ready to retake the reins and send Harry on his way. But after Harry bid Hermione goodbye and finished up the lesson, Tom did not appear. 

Harry flipped through the stack of lesson plans as the next group of students found their way to their desks. He glanced once more to the top of the stairs, but the door to Tom’s office remained closed. 

The students regarded him with confusion, fidgeting in their seats.

Very well, he thought, he could buy Tom some time alone. How complicated could the lesson plans be, with only a fortnight until the holidays? He cleared his throat and addressed the class. “Good morning, everyone. I’ll be filling in for Professor Riddle while he’s working to address the...er, current situation in the castle. Today we’ll be discussing--” he glanced down at the parchment, “--traditional folk methods of repelling dark magic, and their degrees of effectiveness.”

It was going to be a long class.

Lunchtime finally came, and as soon as the students cleared out of the classroom, Harry climbed the stairs and knocked tentatively at Tom’s office door. When there was no answer, he stepped inside, then through to Tom’s private quarters.

Tom sat on the sofa, elbows resting on his knees and one hand pressing at his forehead as if willing his brain to find the answers he sought as he stared at the Turkish carpet. Stacks of books and parchment sprawled across the cushions next to him and on the floor at his feet. 

“I assume Hermione told you everything?” Tom asked without looking up.

“She did,” Harry replied carefully, lingering near the door in case Tom wanted privacy. He couldn’t get a bead on Tom’s mood, besides the obvious fatigue lurking just beyond the edges of his hyperfocus. Tom said nothing else, so Harry added, “I’m sorry I asked her to look into what could be done for your hip. It wasn’t my place.”

“It’s fine.”

“Is it?”

“No,” Tom sighed, leaning back until his head thumped against the sofa’s arched back. “None of this is _fine_ , but the only person I have any right to be angry with is myself. This is entirely my own doing.”

“Well, there isn’t much you can do about it now, unless you plan to get your hands on a Time-Turner and go back to prevent yourself from making stupid mistakes,” Harry joked, but the look the remark earned from Tom was sharp and, of all things, fearful. Unsure how to navigate around a sea of issues he didn’t know were lurking beneath the surface, Harry carefully moved a stack of books to the floor and sat next to Tom. “Stupid suggestion,” he said with a rueful sigh. “Wasn’t funny. I have no idea why it wasn’t funny, but it wasn’t.”

Tom scrubbed his face with his hands. “Please don’t ask me to explain anything else today,” he said, frustration plain though his voice muffled behind his fingers. “I don’t--”

There were so many things Harry yearned to know about Tom, so many things he felt he _should_ know but didn’t yet because Tom was so incredibly secretive about everything except how important Harry was to him. Whenever Harry started to chafe at Tom’s unforthcoming nature, he tried to keep in mind. So he reached out to grasp Tom’s wrists and pull his hands away from his face. “All right,” said Harry gently. He had seen Tom in worse shape, though he still looked as if he needed to sleep for a week and consume something besides tea and words on parchment. Tom returned his gaze warily, clearly expecting a lecture or an argument and surprised when there was neither. 

“All right,” he repeated, still regarding Harry as if he’d grown a second head. He always responded to kindness in such a circumspect manner that Harry would find it funny if it weren’t more than a little sad. He would never tell Tom as much, however, knowing how Tom hated being pitied.

“Harry?” Tom inquired, pulling him from his thoughts. Of the two of them, Harry was not the one given to moments of deep introspection.

Affection ballooned in Harry’s chest and, though he hadn’t planned on bringing it up for another day or two, he said, “Come home with me.” He thoroughly enjoyed the sight of Tom’s normally stoic face flickering from wariness to confusion as he tried to keep up with the change in topic.

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s nearly Christmas. You need a break. Come home with me.”

Tom shook his head. “One of us should stay here, in case there’s another attack.”

“On whom? Albus made certain no students are remaining at school over the holidays, and the faculty can take care of themselves. You need to get out for a bit, even if it’s only Christmas Day. You haven’t left the castle since before this mess began.” For a moment, Harry was afraid he’d pushed too hard, that Tom would balk. But he hadn’t pulled his hands out of Harry’s loose grasp yet, and he appeared, at least, to consider Harry’s argument.

“Are you going to steal my essays again?” he asked at length, and Harry laughed.

“No, but I might sic my mother on you. She’s been asking after you for a while now, and she’ll be very disappointed if you don’t at least make an appearance.”

Tom went very still. “You’ve told your mother about me?”

“I’ve told both my parents about you.”

“I see,” Tom said. His eyes were downcast, studying their hands with a fervor that could only mean he was trying to resist the urge to inquire further. Harry watched with a wry, expectant smile until Tom glanced up with a scowl. “What?”

“You’re dying to know what I told them,” Harry crowed.

“I am not,” said Tom with a half-hearted glare. Harry’s grin only widened at how petulant his response sounded.

“Come off it, you’re a better liar than that,” said Harry with a laugh. Taking pity on him, he continued, “I told them everything they need to know: that you’re important to me.”

“Ah,” was Tom’s only response. He seemed touched.

“I’d like to spend Christmas together, whether it’s here or with my family,” Harry said. “If you don’t want to go, we don’t have to. We can stay here and keep working. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been away for Christmas.”

Tom frowned. “You needn’t miss out on spending time with your family because of me,” he said. “Go on. I’ll be here when you get back.”

“That isn’t the deal,” said Harry turning Tom’s hands over and lacing their fingers together. “We both stay, or we both go. I am happy either way, but those are your two options.”

Tom looked torn for a moment before he took a deep breath, as if he were about to plunge into depths he knew to be treacherous. “Let’s go,” he said. 

Harry leaned over and kissed him.

“But not the entire time,” Tom admonished after Harry pulled away.

“Fair enough. Now, do I need to continue with your classes for the rest of the day? Or are you all right to take over?”

Unlike the last time Harry covered for him, Tom appeared to at least consider his options before replying. “If I say I’ll do it, are you going to let me?”

“Of course,” Harry conceded. Whether or not Tom was in the right headspace to teach at the moment wasn’t a battle he wanted to fight. And, truth be told, he knew Tom was professional enough to put aside anything else that occupied his thoughts in order to do his job. 

Tom seemed pleased and relieved at Harry’s response. “I suppose I should go on, then,” he said, standing up so he could stretch and run a hand through his hair. He grimaced down at his clothes, which were from the previous day and somewhat the worse for wear. Harry cast a freshening charm for him, eyes following the knot of Tom’s necktie as it slid up into proper alignment.

“There,” said Harry, glancing up to Tom’s face. He didn’t have long to look, however, before Tom pulled him into a lingering embrace, face buried in Harry’s perpetually unkempt hair.

“Thank you,” he murmured, and Harry knew he was not referring to the freshening charm alone. He smiled into Tom’s collar.

* * *

Two weeks after Montesquieu and Moaning Myrtle fell victim to the basilisk, the students were dismissed for the holidays and Tom felt a degree of tension leave his body as he watched the thestrals haul the students off to board the Hogwarts Express. There had been no further developments in the search for the culprit, which Tom found simultaneously frustrating and a relief. Which left Tom plenty of time to agonize over his upcoming trip with Harry.

He wasn’t worried about meeting Harry’s parents, exactly. He had been charming people since he was a boy, though he was a bit rusty. 

A _lot_ rusty, Minerva would argue, and she wouldn't be wrong.

Tom’s main concern, though, was that he didn’t know what one did when they visited someone’s home at Christmas. Once he started attending Hogwarts, he had spent every Christmas at the castle. It wasn’t a difficult decision; the orphanage, bleak during the rest of the year, became positively oppressive at Christmas. After he left school, he was so engrossed in his mission to find the mysterious boy that he stopped paying much attention to the date. So now he found himself faced with a social interaction of some importance, and no idea what to expect.

He considered asking Minerva or Albus, but the thought of their pitying looks made him think twice. He was in no mood to field the inevitable condescension such questions would bring. It was best to ask Harry directly, he decided, and figured out a way to phrase his inquiries in such a way that Harry would think he wished to hear about the particular practices of Harry’s family, rather than treat his answers as a remedial lesson in holidays for the poor orphan boy. In any case, Tom liked it when Harry launched into anecdotes about his childhood and family, because he positively lit up and it was such a far cry from what might have been.

If Harry caught on to Tom’s strategy, he didn’t say anything. Tom was grateful.

The morning of Christmas Eve came, bright and cold, and Tom accompanied Harry to the edge of the school grounds to apparate. Harry was dressed as was his habit in cold weather: as if warming spells did not exist, resulting in so many layers that he was only vaguely human-shaped. Tom did not comment; the last time he had said anything about Harry’s winter dress, it had ended with Harry bombarding him with snowballs. Tom wasn’t eager to repeat the experience.

They landed in the middle of a quiet street, facing an unassuming privet hedge and gate, and suddenly Tom was besieged by the familiarity of the view. The house looked much as it had in the dreams of his childhood, with the exception of the snow shining in the midmorning sunlight and the evergreen wreath on the robin’s-egg blue front door. 

It hadn’t even occurred to him that it would be the same house. He hadn’t thought of that dream in ages, not since he shared the vision of this very house with the sickly boy whose murder Tom had tried so hard to avoid.

“Hey,” said Harry softly, jarring him from his reverie. Tom glanced at him and found a reassuring smile just visible above the abominable Gryffindor scarf. He couldn’t quite manage one in return, so he found Harry’s gloved hand at his side and gripped it. Harry’s grin widened, and they made their way through the gate and up to the door.

It was warm inside, and smelled of toffee. Harry started removing his far too many layers of winter gear and called, “Mum! Dad! We’re here!”

“Come on in! I’m in the kitchen, and your father’s wrangling the tree in the conservatory,” a voice emanated from the back of the house. Free of his coat and scarf, Harry took Tom’s damp things from him and spelled them dry before hanging them up. Tom glanced up the familiar stairs before Harry’s cold fingers found his face and turned it so he could look him in the eye.

“Are you all right? You’re acting weird,” Harry said.

“I’m fine,” said Tom unconvincingly.

“They’re just my parents. You needn’t worry.” He brushed his fingers over Tom’s creased brow before leaning in for a kiss. “Come on.”

He led Tom through a doorway and into the kitchen, which was a complete disaster. Practically every surface was dusted with sugar, and there were spatters of chocolate all the way up on the ceiling. Harry’s mother was pouring melted chocolate onto a sheet of toffee, stopping occasionally to brush loose strands of red hair out of her eyes.“Aw, Mum, again?” Harry exclaimed upon seeing the mess. “You don’t have anything to prove. We know your toffee’s better than Aunt Petunia’s.”

“Don’t you start,” she threatened, turning her head so Harry could kiss her on the sugary cheek. Harry wasn’t what anyone would consider tall, but he was a good head taller than his mother. “I’m allowed one vindictive act during this season of goodness and light.”

“Aunt Petunia is Mum’s sister. We don’t really like her or family much,” Harry explained. “They despise us, so Mum likes to send them toffee every year, made without magic so Aunt Petunia can’t accuse her of cheating.”

“Harry, be a dear and sprinkle the almonds on top for me so I can greet Tom properly.” She tossed her apron aside and approached Tom with a smile. It wasn’t quite Harry’s smile--which must have come from his father, Tom mused--but it was very obvious where Harry got his eyes. “Tom, it’s so lovely to finally meet you.”

“Mrs. Potter,” Tom replied, mustering politeness from his dry mouth.

Her nose wrinkled in mild distaste. “Call me Lily, for heaven’s sake,” she said. Before he could reply, she had wrapped him in a hug. He could easily see over her head, where Harry was defying the tradition of making toffee sans-magic by directing slivered almonds onto the candy with his wand. Harry caught his eye, placed a finger to his grinning mouth, and continued his work. Tom was struck by a sudden wave of fondness for Harry and his small but feisty mother and this house he’d only been in for a matter of minutes.

Harry’s father entered the kitchen then, brushing evergreen needles out of his hair. He paused in the doorway and raised an eyebrow at Harry’s use of magic on the toffee, but didn’t comment on it. “Tree’s up, Lil,” he said.

“Oh, good,” Lily replied, pulling away from Tom but keeping one hand on his arm. “Tom, this is Harry’s father, James.”

“Sir,” said Tom, extricating himself from Lily only to be embraced once more by Harry’s father. James pulled back and held Tom at arm’s length for a moment, grinning. If Tom had ever wondered what Harry would look like in a few years’ time, he had his answer. James was slightly taller and his face a little more angular, the nose not quite the same, but Harry clearly favored him.

“We’re glad Harry was able to convince you to come,” said James. “I hope he didn’t threaten you with anything too awful.”

Tom recalled Harry holding his essays hostage to ensure he didn’t back out on the Hogsmeade trip back in October. It seemed Harry had a penchant for well-intended coercion. “Not this time,” he replied, earning a laugh from James. 

Lily shooed them out of the kitchen so she could clean, so Harry took the opportunity to levitate their bags upstairs and show Tom around a bit. The house wasn’t large, and what space there was seemed to be occupied by books and trophies and various odds and ends from around the world. Tom followed Harry up the stairs, trying to shake off the feeling of familiarity he felt with the layout of the house. Harry’s room was directly opposite the top of the stairs, but Tom was certain his nursery had been the small room to the left in his dream.

“This is us,” Harry said, depositing the luggage by the wardrobe in the corner. “Nice to see you, Toerag,” he addressed the black-and-white cat curled in the exact center of the bed. It opened its eyes and stretched when he scratched it behind its ear, but did not vacate the premises. Tom took in the rest of the room, which was sparse but clearly much used. There was a dresser with a mirror, into the frame of which had been stuck several chocolate frog and Quidditch cards and a few odd notes or bits of paper. There were a few framed photographs, some of which were duplicates of the ones Tom had seen in Harry’s room at Hogwarts, and a Snitch in a small glass case. The window overlooked the garden behind the house, currently buried beneath the untouched snow. 

Harry watched Tom inspect the room from his perch on the bed. “Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked. “If this is too much, we can tell them something came up and we’re needed--”

“No, I’d like to stay,” said Tom quickly. He sat next to Harry on the bed, tracing the patterns in the chenille bedspread with his fingers. He didn’t want to delve into how strange it was to be there, in the house he’d seen in his dreams when he was younger and might have gone on to try to murder them all. Nevermind how strange it was to be in a _home_ , with Harry and his parents, who welcomed him and hugged him and seemed genuinely pleased to have him. He settled on, “It’s...different.”

Harry cocked his head to the side, mulling this over. “Good different, or bad different?”

“I haven’t decided.”

“Fair enough,” Harry said. “While you think on it, let’s get downstairs and make sure Mum doesn’t strangle Dad with the tinsel.”

* * *

This was Tom’s first Christmas with something resembling family. 

Hell, it was Tom’s first _anything_ with something resembling family. Harry had known that, of course, but it really struck him as he watched Tom sit aloof from the happenings in the conservatory, eyes and ears sharp as he nursed a cup of tea and flipped through a family photo album at the dining table. Harry and his dad directed the tinsel around the tree with their wands, and Harry’s mother wandered over to Tom occasionally to point out something about one photo or another, mostly embarrassing stories about Harry’s childhood. Tom smiled at those, and at Harry’s dad when he intentionally started hanging baubles unevenly on the tree just to annoy his mum.

“No, James, the glass ones go inside the branches, the dangly ones on the ends. Just like last year. Just like _every bloody year_ ,” she scolded, rearranging things on the tree to her liking.

Harry found it endearing and not a little sad that Tom could be so taken with mundane things, like his mother’s spiteful non-magical cooking or the family photographs. 

“Tom, will you do the honors?” Harry’s dad asked, holding up the gold tinsel star. Tom glanced up from the photo album and, after just a moment’s hesitation, drew his wand and directed the star to the top of the tree. He assessed the tree critically, then added some magical candles to the branches with a flourish of his wand.

“Will that do?” he asked Harry’s mum, because she was clearly the one with the final say when it came to tree decor.

“It’s perfect,” she said, leaning down to give him a peck on the cheek.

He ducked his head and returned his attention to the photo album, but Harry didn’t miss his smile.

Tom seemed to open up a bit more after that, engaging in conversation with Harry’s parents and even lending his mother a hand in the kitchen as she finished up the last of the baking later that evening after dinner. Harry and his dad sat in the living room, listening to the wireless and sipping some vintage Firewhisky that Sirius had sent over some time ago. It had begun to snow again, and fat, wet flakes brushed against the glass of the bay window.

“He’s limping,” his dad observed. 

“Hip injury from his travels,” said Harry. “It isn’t bothering him as much today, so he’s left his cane upstairs. I think he didn’t want anyone to make a big deal out of it.”

His dad nodded thoughtfully. “He seems quiet. How does he put up with you?”

“We do all right,” Harry replied. “He isn’t usually this reserved. Well, not all the time, anyway. I think he’s a little overwhelmed.”

His father looked mildly affronted. “Your mother and I have been on our best behavior,” he insisted.

“I know that, and I am eternally grateful. But he never had anything like this, Dad,” said Harry, glancing at the door and keeping his voice low. “He grew up in a muggle orphanage until he could attend Hogwarts.”

His dad took a sip of Firewhisky and said dryly, “Injured _and_ an orphan? Don’t tell your mother. She’ll want to adopt him.”

Harry chuckled. “That wouldn’t be a bad thing.”

“Oh, it wouldn’t, would it? Things must be serious.” His dad raised an eyebrow. Harry ignored his statement and tossed a pillow in his direction.

“He doesn’t like to talk about the orphanage, but I looked it up. It’s...well. He wasn’t going to have any friends there.” Harry thought of a young Tom, how his magical talent must have made itself known at a very early age. He thought of his own aunt and uncle and how intolerant and envious they seemed whenever they spent time with Harry’s family, and he knew just how miserable Tom’s childhood must have been.

“Surely it was better after he started attending school,” offered his dad. “It was for your mother.”

Harry snorted. “He was placed in Slytherin. Proud little orphan boy, raised by Muggles, more powerful than any of those pompous asses could imagine. Right, I’m sure that went over beautifully with his housemates.”

“Fair enough. But you didn’t answer my question.”

“I didn’t hear you ask one,” Harry countered, and his dad tossed the pillow back in his face for cheek. Harry sighed and stretched out along the length of the sofa, hugging the pillow to his chest. “I don’t know. Maybe?” 

“There’s no maybe about it, from what I’ve seen today.” 

“There’s a lot I still don’t know about him.”

“Don’t let that stop you,” his dad said. “I’m still figuring out your mother and we’ve been married almost twenty-five years. And I would say he’s still figuring you out, too, judging by how he’s been filing away all of the dirt we’ve been giving him on you today.”

Harry pulled a face. “Did you have to tell him how I nearly killed Toerag by putting him on a broomstick?”

“Of course he did,” Tom chimed in from the doorway. “Now I know to never get on a broom with you.” He leaned against the jamb, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and hands in his pockets, an endearing streak of flour high on one cheekbone. He looked the most relaxed Harry had seen him outside of the first moments after waking. It took Harry an embarrassingly long time to realize he was staring.

“On that note, I think I’m going to turn in. We’ll see you in the morning,” Harry’s dad said, rising from his chair. Tom stepped aside to allow him room to pass. He paused in the doorway and added, “She’s an old house, lads. Be mindful that her walls are thin.”

“Oh my God,” Harry groaned. He hid his face in one of the pillows so he didn’t have to look at his father or at Tom.

“Merry Christmas,” came his father’s sing-song reply. Harry didn’t remove his pillow refuge, so he just listened to his father’s footsteps retreating up the stairs. A moment later, his mother’s followed from the kitchen.

The sofa dipped beside him. “You can come out now. They’re gone,” Tom said. Harry lowered the pillow and found Tom sitting next to him on the edge of the sofa, watching him with a barely-suppressed smile.

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” Harry groused.

“I am,” Tom agreed. “Your mother is lovely.”

“And my father is evil.”

“Perhaps. But your mother is the one whose wrath I hope never to suffer.”

“Smart man.” Harry squinted at him. He reached out and brushed the flour from Tom’s cheek. “Where is this coming from? Earlier I thought you were going to make a run for it before we even made it through the gate.”

Tom considered the fire for a moment. “You looked up the orphanage?” he asked, and Harry felt his cheeks heat.

“How much did you overhear?” he asked carefully, hoping what Tom had heard of his conversation with his father didn’t embarrass him or hurt him. That was the last thing Harry wanted to do.

“You’re right. I never had this,” he said, gesturing to the room, but Harry knew he meant much more. “I had no desire to have it. I thought it was a vulnerability, something to exploit. And if someone offered this, as you have, I wouldn’t have accepted it. Everyone has an ulterior motive.”

“That’s a lonely way to live.”

“I wanted it that way.”

“And now?” Harry asked, watching Tom’s face intently. 

“I don’t hate it,” said Tom.

He looked bewildered and not a little cross by the confession, elbows resting on his knees as he gazed out the window at the dark, snow-shrouded world outside. Harry couldn’t imagine thinking something like family or friends or love could make you weak. What kind of life would such an outlook consign you to? What kind of person would a mindset like that produce? Judging by Tom’s disconcerted expression, he knew exactly what such a life was like.

A log in the fire cracked. Over the wireless, a choir was singing a carol at such a low volume that Harry couldn’t distinguish it.

He sat up, looping his arms loosely around Tom’s neck and drawing his attention away from the window. "If everyone has an ulterior motive, do you want to know what mine is? Because I absolutely have one.”

“Do you, indeed?”

“Do you know what I thought when I walked into Dumbledore's office and saw you there that first day?" asked Harry, leaning forward, their foreheads touching. "I have no idea. I couldn't think because I was absolutely taken with you from that very moment. I gibbered something about Quidditch, I don't know. I'm sure I sounded like a right nutter. And then I tried to get details about you from Albus for the next two weeks, but he was being all secretive and, well, _Albus_ , and that just made things worse because then you were tall, dark, _and_ mysterious."

Tom huffed a laugh, breath warm. "You didn't sound like a nutter," he said. "Or maybe you did. I don't remember, I was trying too hard not to pass out because I finally knew your name." 

Before Harry could even decide if he should question that now or leave it until later, Tom pulled away just far enough to glance at his forehead and brush his fringe aside with gentle fingers. “I’ve met you before,” he said quietly, as if he were afraid if he didn’t say it then, he would never say it at all.

Harry shook his head minutely, dropping his hands from Tom’s shoulders. “I would have remembered you,” he said with absolute certainty.

"Well, a version of you," Tom amended. "From now, but not.”

Harry blinked at him, stunned. “How?”

“A Time-Turner. That version of you came back to my time to try to change things for the better. I met him, but I never had the chance to learn his name.” There was more to it than that, Harry knew. He could sense the omissions in Tom’s pauses, in the flicker of his eyes to one side, but Harry believed what Tom _was_ sharing to be the truth. Incomplete as it was, it was still the most Tom had ever voluntarily shared with him.

“Did he--I?--succeed?” Harry asked, tripping over the complicated pronouns. “How would you know?”

Tom nodded slowly. “From what I saw and what little he told me, the life you’ve had in this time has been very, very different. The world he came from was not a good place. His parents were dead. His friends were suffering. He was dying. And I couldn’t do anything to help him. I had never felt so powerless.”

“Oh,” Harry breathed, the pieces of Tom’s story coming together in his head suddenly. “Were you and he--Merlin’s beard, Rita Skeeter was right. You did confront Death for someone you loved.”

Tom’s face twisted. “Not exactly,” he hedged. “He was important to me, but _this_ ,” he indicated the space between them, “this is all you. I wasn’t expecting it, not by any stretch of the imagination.”

Harry leaned forward and wrapped his arms so tightly around Tom that it knocked the breath from the other man’s lungs.

“I’m glad you came with me today,” he said into Tom’s neck. He felt Tom’s hand come to rest at the back of his skull, long fingers just tickling the hair that curled above his collar.

“So am I,” said Tom. After a moment he added with false irritation, “But Rita Skeeter? Must you bring her up?”

Harry pulled back just enough to kiss the pout from his mouth. “Come upstairs and let me make it up to you." He smothered a grin as he led Tom up the dark staircase. Tom had questioned his reference to Rita Skeeter, but he hadn't denied the other part of that statement.

**Author's Note:**

> The Ouroboros is a Greek word meaning "tail devourer," and is one of the oldest mystical symbols in the world. It can be perceived as enveloping itself, where the past (the tail) appears to disappear but really moves into an inner domain or reality, vanishing from view but still existing. It represents the cyclical nature of creation from destruction, and Life out of Death.
> 
> I realize Minerva's dates have been adjusted a bit in canon over the years, but back in the Dark Ages of HP fandom, she was supposed to have attended Hogwarts at the same time as Tom. I haven't been able to shake the image of Minerva seeing right through his charm when they were students, even if she could never know just what he would become.


End file.
